The Beat Generation
by Airia Black
Summary: How did a trendy beatnik like Dean McCoppin end up in a small time, quiet town like Rockwell, Maine? This is Dean’s story and a recollection of the events that lead to the artistic scrap-man’s current choice of residence. Prequel to The Iron Giant.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN:** So if you're reading this, welcome to my backstory of Dean McCoppin from the hit animation film, The Iron Giant. After watching the movie for possibly the billionth time, a thought struck me: what was a beatnik like Dean doing in a small time town like Rockwell? Obviously an explanation was needed, and thus, this story idea was spawned. What I'm attempting to do is explain how Dean came to reside in Rockwell, and possibly diverge on how he became the beatnik artist he is today. This first chapter is simply the epilogue, a retrospective ending to all things yet to come. There will be names and people you don't recognize, but as this story progressives and starts back in Dean's childhood and youth, you will get to know the players. Anyways, being the history nut I am, I'm trying to involve real-time American history with the concept of the Iron Giant. For example, the man Herb Caen in this chapter actually did exist and he really did write an article about "beatniks", coining the term in April of 1958. I'll probably be including a little history lesson in the beginning of every chapter, just to explain things better, so enjoy. As always, read and review: I'd love to hear what you think._

**The Beat Generation**

_Epilogue _

_June 2nd, 1958, Rockwell, Maine_

In the early morning hours of May, 1958, the Hughes household was an abyss of quiet, mind the red-robed artist who wandered through the kitchen with bleary eyes, rubbing them ever so slightly. The 31 one year old man, after living a short stint in his office at the scrap-yard was now happily residing with his would-be-wife of one month, and after a quiet reception in the town's local church, the couple were perfectly content living in matrimonial bliss. Still, despite being tied down to married life, it didn't stop Dean from breaking his habits, especially the one that dictated he wake at an ungodly early hour to sit and read the newspaper while sipping espresso. He had learned after much gusto not to wake Annie unless he was prepared for a grumpy onslaught of lecturing, and so much like he had done while living in the scrap-yard, sat in solstice while watching the sun rise while waiting for the morning paper to be delivered.

Shuffling around the kitchen in his navy-blue slippers, the beat artist rummaged around in the cupboards, deftly pulling out a bulky looking coffee-maker that had definitely seen better years. Although not his style, he had still yet to bring his petite and particularly loved coffee-maker that still sat in the make-shift kitchen in the office of the scrap-yard to his new 'home'. The little percolating baby had made it clear to him some years ago that taking it from it's place on the dusty counter in the office was not an option (for in all honesty, where else would he find such a perfect coffee maker capable of brewing instant cups of espresso while he was at work?), and so Dean had settled on using Annie's old and slightly out-dated machine instead. True, the espresso it brewed was rather bad, but Dean told himself in a few month's time he would have enough money saved up to buy them a brand new coffee-maker, and thus the problem was inherently solved.

With sleepy fingers, he plugged the cord into the outlet on the wall and scooped out a filter from the drawer, fitting it snugly into to the open mouth of the maker.

A loud thump resonated against the wooden front door, and Dean took this as a good sign. The morning paper had arrived, and just on time. He glanced at the time on his wrist-watch. 7:14. Smiling, he shuffled to the front door and picked up the thick morning newspaper, bringing it back to the kitchen and setting it down on the table. It would be another half hour before either Annie or Hogarth got up, and it gave him the perfect amount of time to browse through the world politics section.

Setting his attention back to the coffee-maker, he was midway through reaching up into the cupboard above the stove when the black melomite plastic phone on the end of the counter-space let out a shrill ring. The sound was far too loud and far too sharp for this early in the morning. It let out a second ring, and Dean, fearful that it would wake up his family (more specifically the wrath he would recieve from Annie in the aftermath), scrambled to the phone and picked up the receiver in sudden casual and collected manner, as if someone had been watching his humorous run.

"Hughes-McCoppin residence," he intoned to the reciever. Before he could even ask who was speaking, the voice on the other end of the line burst out excitedly.

"Dean, Dean! Is that you!?"

The loud voice blasted his eardrums and Dean abruptly pulled the receiver away from his tender ear.

"_Darwin?_" he questioned weakly.

"_Dean!_"

"Darwin," he reasoned, still sleepy. "Not to rain on your parade or cramp your style, but it's seven in the morning! Did it ever occur to you that some people might still be sleeping?"

The man at the other end of the line snorted.

"You, Dean McCoppin, asleep at seven in the morning?"—again the man let out an abrupt laugh—"When that happens, either the Commies have finally attacked or you died sometime during the night. I know you Dean; up at 6:45 am at the dot, not a moment sooner."

Dean let out an amicable sigh and ran his hand through his thick head of black hair.

"You got me there, Dar'," he admitted in defeat. Forgetting that he had been intent on making himself some morning coffee, he quickly cradled the phone between his shoulder and his ear and carried the cord with him as he headed back to the cupboards. "So any particular reason why you decided to call me at such an early hour?" he mused with slight mock sarcasm. His question seemed to re-ignite the other mans enthusiasm and he could literally visualize Darwin's face breaking out into a goofy smile.

"Dean, Dean!" Darwin said excitedly. "You wouldn't believe it, you wouldn't believe what I'm about to tell you."

With a tired yawn, Dean stretched out his limbs and raised a skeptic brow, one that Darwin couldn't see and re-positioned the slipping phone, cradling the receiver closer to his head. He reached for the tiny tin of espresso Columbian bean coffee grains from the cupboard and busily began preparing the coffee maker.

"We have a name now Dean," Darwin went on to tell him. "The lot of us in New York here; they gave us a name."

Measuring out 3 exact spoons of the tiny, black grain, Dean poured the contents into the filter of the machine. Meticulously, he made sure the filter was positioned exactly the way he wanted it, and gently jostling the white paper, evening out the grains so they spread out across the filter and covered it completely.

"A name?" Dean questioned. The phone slipped from his ear and he quickly grabbed it, pressing the receiver tightly back against his cheek.

"They're calling us Beatniks Dean—_beatniks_! Can you believe it?"

He turned on the kitchen sink and a stream of water gushed forth. _Beatniks_, Dean questioned to himself silently. His shoulders seemed to lag with a shrug and he grunted, the phone once again slipping.

"Who's calling us Beatniks, Dar'?" The water gurgled slightly before coming out clean and he carefully and slowly poured 2 and ¾ cups of the liquid into the coffee maker.

"The American media!" Darwin went on to say excitedly. "This loon Herb Caen from San Francisco was talking about the Beat generation here in New York and decided to add the suffix '_nik_' to the word—you know, like the Russian satellite, Sputnik? I think he was trying to make us all seem un-American, but the term took off like a jiving whirl-wind! Now everyone's referring to us as Beatniks! Even the President in his address made a joke about the beret wearing, goatee sporting poets from the Big Apple! '_Those crazy Beatniks and their written word'_ he said, '_why I'll be damned if their berets and goatee's that everyone keeps telling me are evil will be the downfall of America!_'"

Dean chuckled slightly at this and turned on the coffee maker. _Well_, he atoned to himself. _Stranger things had happened to them_.

"That sounds like one hellva' circus, Dar'," he finally said.

"A media circus you mean," Darwin replied thoughtfully. "The Libertine underground is up in arms. Some are angry that we are being merged into the American culture we fought to stave off, but others, like Frank, think it's funny and comical. Either way Dean, me and you are Beatniks now. We're not just the Beat generation anymore. We have ourselves a name."

Dean grinned and loftily sank down into the wooden kitchen chair. He was tempted to kick his feet up onto the table, but resisted in fear that Annie would come in any moment now and start his own circus that he'd have to deal with right here in Rockwell, Maine.

"_Nah_," Dean passed off into the receiver, still smiling. He wasn't convinced. "You've got it all wrong Dar'. I'm not a Beatnik; _you're_ a Beatnik. I left the Big Apple, remember? I got out of the underground and the art scene. I was part of the generation, but not the coined word."

Darwin, like Dean, didn't sound convinced with his answer.

"You still listen jazz and scat, don't you? You've got that junk-yard of yours full of art and I'm betting right now you're making yourself a cup of espresso-joe. Amelia here's got ten dollars on the fact that you still wear that robe you got from that Taoist cat, Kim-Lee and that you're wearing it right now."

Dean's grin widened and he chuckled ever so slightly.

"See, _see!_" Darwin cried enthusiastically. "I knew you were still living like you were in the underground. You can take the Beatnik out of New York, but you can't take New York out of the Beatnik."

"So you have an expression for me now, do you?" Dean joked in his warm, baritone voice, twirling the phone cord around his fingers. He lifted his feet onto the table and leaned the chair back on its back two legs. He could hear the coffee percolating, and drip, drip, drip from the machine was an indication that momentarily he would have himself a nice uplifting cup of grade-A Colombian espresso.

"You've still got it, Dean," Darwin told his friend warmly. "Your still one of us, no matter how far away you traveled."

"Rockwell, Maine is pretty far away," Dean said with another smile his friend couldn't see.

"Yeah," Darwin replied humorously, and Dean imaged the musician to be grinning crazily like the time he was when he first met him. "Where the hell is that again anyways?"

Dean couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sensation of nostalgia and lowered the lids of his eyes ever so slightly, his voice coming down to a slight reverberating hush.

"Exactly."

Darwin laughed like mad and in the background he could hear Amelia yelling at him to get off the phone, that Kate needed help with her homework and somewhere along the line, a dog was barking.

"Look Dean," Darwin said in a sudden rush. "I gotta' jet. I just called to tell you the news. If you get a chance, pick yourself up a copy of the _New York Times_ and flip to the entertainment section. Do they sell the _Times_ in Rockwell?" He could literally imagine Darwin absent-mindlessly trying to figure out if the famous _Times_ newspaper made its way to the tiny unknown town of Rockwell, his face screwed into a look of wonder and confusion. "_Nah_," he finally decided. "Listen Dean, Amelia's yelling like crazy and the kiddo's got some math equations to do before she heads off to school. But I'll call you again soon, 'kay? We'll get together; me and 'Melia will take a road-trip with little Kate and we'll find this crazy little town of Rockwell, Maine that swallowed up our beloved Beatnik metal artist."

"That sounds great Dar'," Dean told the guitarist with a small smile. "Call me soon."

The phone conversation came to and end, and before Dean could even think of hanging up the phone, he turned his head and found himself looking into the crossed-armed glare of a fiery red-head, fully dressed and ready for the day.

"Dean Gerard McCoppin!" she lectured. "How in the world am I supposed to keep Hogarth from keeping his feet off the table when you, a grown man, can't even stop yourself for five full minutes!"

Sheepishly, Dean hopped off the chair and hung up the phone.

"I'm sorry, babe," he said smoothly to his wife. He kissed her cheek and wrapped a loving pair of arms around her slightly swelling waist line. "That was Darwin calling. I guess I forgot."

Annie shot her husband a reproaching look, as if she wasn't satisfied with his answer, but after looking into his pleading eyes, her face softened and she smiled.

"Just don't do it when Hogarth's around," she told him lovingly. "The boy looks up to you, Dean. And I don't want him catching on to any of your bad habits!"

"_Me_?" Dean said, feigning mock innocence. "Bad habits? You must got the wrong beatnik, honey."

"Beatnik?" Annie questioned. She busied herself by the stove and began to make breakfast.

"Yeah," Dean replied softly. "That's what they're calling me now in New York. A beatnik."

Annie simply shrugged, as if the word held no special connotation to her and returned her attention back to the stove. Dean however, kept smiling, and wordlessly went to pour himself a tiny cup of the perfectly brewed black liquid that was now sitting finished in the pot over on the counter. He couldn't expect Annie to understand what Beatnik meant to him, let alone the word 'Beat'. To the citizens of Rockwell, Maine, beat was just a word used in musical terms. To suggest it was a label for a whole generation simply didn't make sense to them. They were too sheltered; too small-time. Even now, he felt Annie had difficulties understanding his art. Sure, she liked it, but the concept of turning junk into something useful seemed foreign to her. They didn't see the value in his scrap, and like most people in the town, he was pretty sure despite marrying him, that his wife thought him to be eccentric. Still, he didn't let himself muse too long on the subject, and after finishing his tiny cup, poured himself another and stretched. He reached for the newspaper, and drolly, unfolded the thick white and black tome, tipping backwards on his chair again.

"_Dean!_"

The voice of his wife reprimanding him startled him and he lost his balance, the chair tipped over, sending Dean, his newspaper and his espresso tumbling to the floor.

"_Ow!_"

"You deserved that," Annie simply said and began cooking a pan full of bacon and eggs.

Only moments later, 10 year old Hogarth Hughes, still clad in his pajamas entered the kitchen, and seeing Dean awkwardly splayed out on the floor with a chair beneath his backside and his Mom ignoring her hurting husband, busying herself at the stove, easily deduced what happened.

"_Mom_," Hogarth whined. "Why does Dean get to lean back in his chair at the kitchen table? Whenever I do it, you yell at me. But when Dean here,"—Hogarth eyed Dean suspiciously, who still had made no attempts to get up off the floor—"does it, you don't even turn around! Look Mom, he fell and he's on the floor!"

Dean grinned, and Annie sighed, burying her face into her hand, before instructing Hogarth to go back upstairs and get dressed. With little resistance, the boy left and she turned her attention back to Dean who was currently up-righting the kitchen furniture.

"_See_?" she stressed in agitation. "Now he thinks I let you play with the kitchen chairs."

Dean shrugged, still grinning and went back the coffee maker.

"He's a kid Annie—let kid's think what they want."

Sensing her growing frustration, he quickly pecked his wife on the cheek before slipping out of the room, taking his newspaper and coffee with him.

From the living room, he could hear Annie sputtering, muttering about the ungrateful 'boys' who she lived with, but he simply smiled demurely, mostly to himself, and opened up the newspaper. _She's cute when she's angry_, he thought to himself.

Hogarth barreled down the stairs again and was half way into the kitchen before he skidded back into the living room and shot Dean an impish smile.

"I know my Mom doesn't let you play on the chairs," he admitted in hushed tones to the older man. "But it's fun to bug her like that." Dean, sensing that Hogarth in all honesty was about to cause more trouble, buried his face in his paper, and listened while the boy walked into the kitchen and let out another harrowing:

_"Mom! Dean's drinking coffee in the living-room again. Does this mean I can drink chocolate milk in there too?"_

He listened intently while his wife attempted to explain the reasons why Hogarth could not drink chocolate milk while sitting in the living-room and ultimately used the time-worn excuse of "because I said so," and "Dean's an adult, sweetie. He can do what he wants."

Hogarth strolled out of the kitchen moments later and Dean eyed the kid with lax interest.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," he said as a matter-of-fact. "I think she's pretty angry with you."

Dean shot the boy an unimpressed look and muttered a low-key: "Thanks, kid. That's exactly what I need right now. Your Mom all riled-up and angry at seven in the morning."

Hogarth however, simply smiled brightly and walked out of the room.

"No problem, Dean," his retreating back told the man. Not fully buying he was gone, Dean wasn't surprised when Hogarth popped his head back into the living room momentarily. The boy _always _had something else to say. "And by the way," he said, tapping the non-existent watch on his wrist. "It's eight o'clock now, so Mom's anger is right on schedule. Don't worry though. In another fifteen minutes, she'll be sad and mopey and possibly with her head in the toilet bowl upstairs! Isn't it great now that she's pregnant? It's like she has twenty different personalities all at once!"

Dean however, wasn't quite convinced as Hogarth was of his Mom's mood-swings. In a few weeks, he had the feeling Hogarth would be just as annoyed by her constantly fluxing personality as he was. Maybe then he could explain to the boy the virtues of keeping a women happy. _Only five more months_ he told himself futilely. _And then I'll have another baby like Kate to take care of_. Still, it was another day in the life of Dean McCoppin, and for the first time in nearly 10 years, he was genuinely satisfied with what he had.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

Not much is known about the small town of Paxton, Massachusetts, but with a population of 4,300 people, it is suffice to say that is smaller then the town of Rockwell, Maine…but not by much. Settled in 1749 by a group of devote Calvinist followers, for the past 200 years the town has boasted a claim for bringing up morally righteous Christian families with wholesome family values and servile attitudes when it comes to the work of Lord Jesus. Situated virtually in the middle of nowhere, the town is visible for miles away through the thick forest of trees and endless country back roads due to the tall white spire of the town's one and only church, Paxton's Center Worship Hall. And while the people in the town are kind and friendly, they can be equally vicious and full of snobbery if one does not follow the strict social code when it comes to abiding by Paxton community morals.

In the quiet January lull between the great snow storm of December, 1926 and the equally great February thaw of 1927, the infantile Dean Gerard McCoppin was born into the pristine white-washed town of Paxton, Massachusetts and anointed as a child of god in the Paxton Center Worship Hall only a few days later. His parents, Gerard Samuel and Marilyn Lou McCoppin were pleased with the birth of such a healthy child, and as they were instructed to, raised their child in such a way that he would one day be beneficial to the small community.

But as the McCoppin family was soon to learn, things always don't go as the way the Lord planned them to. Dean, by nature was a very difficult child. As the town's doctor liked to say, he was very "free-spirited". Still, the McCoppin's took the Reverend's word to heart and from a young age, began to instill the word of God into their son life. He was reprimanded wholesomely for even daring to throw a tantrum at church and was made to recite Bible verses as punishment when he had done something bad. However, as their handsome son grew, it was obvious by age 10 that he simple wasn't the gentle and kind-hearted boy the McCoppin's had intended their boy to be.

"He won't listen to us," lamented Mrs. McCoppin to their Reverend at church one fine Sunday morning. Even as she spoke, Dean, dressed sullenly in his Sunday's best, pulled anxiously at his mother's hand, his eyes darting to the doorway.

"He simply isn't obedient," Mr. McCoppin informed the man in a more professional manner and without the air of a women's distress. The town, in the midst of the Great Depression, had been struck particularly hard, and with their town's small economy failing, people turned more readily to their Reverend for advice in their great time of need. The Reverend, about to instill upon the family his thoughts about their disobedient son, was interrupted when Dean, seemingly irritated by such small talk in the stuffy annex of the church hall, wrenched his hand away from his mother's and sped towards the door, running outside to meet with the other children.

"_See!_" cried Mrs. McCoppin. The frazzled women seemed to be on the brink of tears. With Gerard getting terminally laid-off from his job at the town's local post-office, and the news of his mother dying in Rockwell, the women simply wasn't meant to handle such high amounts of stress. She had come from a dainty family of dainty virtues. All of this, including her son's disobedience was just too much.

"Perhaps if your son joined the church's youth-group," the Reverend suggested lightly. The McCoppin's instantly thought this was a good idea.

"Yes," Mr. McCoppin said thoughtfully. "A youth-group would be good for our Dean." The couple eagerly began to discuss Dean's enrollment within the church's group, and from outside, the deep-hazel eyed ten-year old stared at his parents through the dirty glass window panes, an even more unpleasant look plastered on his face then the one he had had when forced to stand by his parents while talking to the Reverend.

---

The youth-group, as Dean decided, wasn't all that bad. His age group, classified as the 9-12 year old children listened to a lot of Biblical stories from the Old Testament and afterwards, they got to color pictures. While Dean wasn't particularly interested in the stories (as he had heard all of them at home from his parents numerous times over), the coloring however, was something that caught his eye. As a child growing up in the Depression, his parents had felt luxuries like crayons and coloring books weren't necessary for a child such as Dean. So once a week, Dean would attend the youth-group and spend his time coloring pictures of Moses and Joseph and other Biblical characters of whom Dean didn't particularly care for. The crayons however, he did care for. The colors were fascinating. The red's and blue's and yellow's could make even more interesting colors, and it wasn't long before he was making a menagerie of the rainbow over Joseph's coat. This pleased the youth-leaders greatly. It wasn't long before Dean grew bored of simply coloring outlined pictures from a coloring book, and once he was done with the pictures on the front, he would turn over the back side of the paper and draw his own pictures which he could then color too. For a ten year old, he was precociously gifted, and while the youth-leaders saw this, they said nothing and two years passed before Dean's parents found out about his budding artistic skills.

---

After a while, the leaders in Dean's youth began to sense that the young lad was more interested in coloring than the actual stories. To the Reverend, this came as no suprise. The McCoppin child had always been obtusely difficult, even as a toddler, and so this was no news to him. One evening, the Reverend attended the groups meeting and afterwards pulled a very bored looking eleven year old Dean McCoppin aside for a little "chat."

"Dean, son," the Reverend said. "Do ya' like youth group, boy?"

Dean gave a small shrug.

"It's okay, I guess."

"Do ya' like what the leaders have to say? Do ya' like Mrs. Epstein's stories and Mr. Farling's biblical anecdotes?"

Again, Dean shrugged.

"They're nice stories, Reverend Mills," he said politely, like his parents had taught him to do.

The Reverend sensed that Dean wasn't telling him everything. He asked the boy some more questions.

"Do ya' understand the meaning behind these stories, Dean?"

"I guess," Dean replied. He seemed fidgety and his eyes kept drifting to the other children by the snack table.

"And today's story about King Solomon? Did ya' understand what God was trying to tell you?"

The distant eleven year old shrugged and for the first time looked the Reverend in the eye.

"Like I said Reverend Mills. They're all nice stories. But that's all they seem to be; stories. Can I go join the other children now?"

Befuddled and mildly concerned, the Reverend nodded his head, his chin wobbling slightly and Dean left to join the other children. Noticing the unclaimed drawing on the table where Dean had sat, the Reverend noted the boy had done a very nice coloring job. He picked it up, observing the uncanny craftsmanship of the child and was curious enough to flip it over to see if he had colored anymore. However, he was even more astounded to find that the back had a very keenly colored picture of what seemed to be Mrs. Epstein with a comically enlarged slack-jaw which made the cartoonish figure look bloated and boisterous. The Reverend frowned, but didn't say anything to anyone, much like the youth leaders and things were left at that.

---

Intent on learning more about this "art" world that Dean had be so sheltered to up until he was ten, Dean would take his limited spending money and head down to the local general store and search through the racks until he found the most interesting magazine he could find. He wanted one with the brightest colors and most interesting shapes; something that the town of white-washed Paxton lacked. On his first visit to the general store, he found in the back of the rack a magazine from New York, and in it, a musical myriad of up-and-rising blue's stars. Fascinated by these men, holding instruments like cello's and saxophones, (something he had never seen here in Paxton, for the community had decided the only acceptable instrument was the organ and the piano), he spent all his pocket money in one go. Dean purchased the flashy magazine and went home and read the glossy little piece of literature in one single afternoon. While most kids his age would rather spend their time reading comic books, Dean decided he liked this particular magazine so much that he read it over and over again. Upon being called down to supper by his parents, he decided that next month when the new issue of "_The Down-Beat Yorker_" came out, he would buy it again. And he did. Month after month until his thirteenth birthday in January, 1940, Dean bought the trendy little magazine, greatly confusing the old man at the general store. And month after month, he would draw what he saw on the back of the coloring papers at the youth-group, much to the astonished chagrin of the leaders. He did this until turning thirteen, upon which time the Reverend informed him he was too old for the 9-12 age group, and from that point on he would be attending the 13-18 age group instead. At his first meeting, he discovered they no longer listened to old Bible stories and colored, but discussed passages from their favorite testaments and reveled over the work of God. It was then Dean was given no choice and began drawing things at home instead. When his parents saw his hidden artistic ability, they were confused.

"Where did you learn to draw like this, Dean?" his mother asked.

"At church," he simply replied.

"At church?" his father asked skeptically.

"Yup."

The family didn't talk much about how Dean spent his spare time after that, for it was obvious that when he was holed up in his room that he was preoccupied with sketching bats, or shoes or something useless and insipid his father deemed unnecessary.

"He could be playing baseball rather than drawing bats," his father would mutter. "What a useless talent. What a silly thing to do."

One evening, after returning home from a particulary pointless youth meeting, Dean announced at dinner he no longer wanted to attend the group. He didn't state his reasons; he simply told them he didn't want to go anymore. While his parents put up a fuss, Dean ultimately won the argument and spent the time he would have been at the youth group downtown, sketching buildings. They weren't anything like the one's in his magazine, but an old man he met in the park the other day told him he simply couldn't flat, one-dimensional objects all the time. He had to "expand" his horizons. And expand he did. For that's when he met Nate Rivers.


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN**_: _So this chapter has mentions of the First and Second World Wars, all of which everyone should know about. But if you've been living under a rock for the past century, WWI started on June 28th, 1914 and ended in with the signing of the Armistice treaty on November 11th, 1918. America did not enter WWI until 1917. WWII started on September 1st, 1939 and ended September 2nd, 1945. America entered WWII in 1941. In correlation to the story, Dean would have been twelve when WWII started and fourteen when America entered the war. As always, read and review: I'd love to hear what you think._

_---  
_

**Chapter 2**

Nate Rivers was a tall, lanky Southern boy with golden toned skin and mud-brown hair with eyes dark as coal. He hailed from Beaumont, Mississippi, a town so small he guaranteed you that never in a million years would you ever be able to find it on any map. With his two younger brothers, Nate had traveled across Maritime America, arriving to the town of Paxton nearly two years ago in a beat up old Chevy truck that the locals suspected to be stolen. He was fourteen at the time and it was later revealed that he didn't even have a license. A few days later the local police chief impounded Nate's truck, leaving both him and his brothers stranded in the small community with the pity of the town's folk to look after them. However, the people of Paxton felt little for the Rivers boys and after a few free hand outs, they expected the scraggly looking trio to move on. But with their truck gone and no money to ever pay the ridiculous impound fine, the town's people didn't seem to understand the misdoings of their own actions. Efficiently and effectively, they had caged the Rivers boys in their small time community, with no hopes of ever letting them leave. Eventually, the boys found a place of solstice on the outskirts of town at the old Farling farm where the elderly couple allowed the boys to stay in the abandoned coach house in lieu of work done around the estate. This was mildly acceptable, simply because old Mr. and Mrs. Farling were far too old to be doing yard work, and it put the Rivers boys to good measure. Still even after acquiring the funds required to free their beloved truck, for reasons unknown, Nate and his siblings, Donnie and Moe, took it upon themselves to make Paxton their new home. Nobody ever really knew why they had left the South, but rumors circulated that their father had been prosecuted for helping black folk rally against their white oppressors. They kept mostly to themselves and the Farling farm, mind the occasional Sunday in which they would show up for church wearing dirty blue jeans and ripped plaid work shirts. Of course, the town's people of Paxton thought this to be scandalous and so due mostly to their snobbery, the Rivers boys remained social outcasts amongst the community, and as far they were concerned, seemed to like it.

Dean himself knew little of the Rivers boys. At thirteen, a year after their arrival, he was well versed on the evils of their Southern ways, of their horrible, misconstrued and improper accents and the aloof manner in which they seemed to annoy the entire town's people with. Occasionally, Nate would bring his brothers and himself to church, but his parents forbade him from even talking to the mysterious fifteen year old, least of all make eye contact with him. But Dean was ever so curious. The boy wore black shirts and washed out blue jeans, all of which the town's people seemed to think was a sign of poverty. But after working on the Farling's Farm for two and a half years, Nate one day showed up to church riding a 1933 VL Model Harley Motorcycle. In a huff of dust, chrome and loud, reverberating sounds from a powerful, slightly outdated engine, he all by his lonesome walked up the stone stairs of the church and crept into the service, a good ten minutes late, and in doing so, permanently solidified his position as the town's no-good troublemaker. Not only had he interrupted the opening sermon, but with all the racket his bike had made, a few of the elderly couples in the church had believed the end of the world to becoming near and sunk into a panic. This was particularly troublesome and the rest of the service was spent trying to calm old Mrs. Spidle and soothe the elderly twin Jenkin sisters into a state of sedation. His parents were particularly off-put by this incident, and again warned Dean on Nate's baneful behavior.

But Dean, feeling particularly apathetic, did not hear his parents warnings. One can only be told a sin is bad for so long before the threat of damnation becomes empty, and the threat that Nate Rivers and his brothers would bring a hail-storm of brimstone and all of Hell's fury onto the town of Paxton had finally reached its shelf-life. From a far in his pew, Dean secretly admired the bike that sat in pristine glory outside the church's windows, and marveled at the skid marks made in the gravel parking lot. It was so cool.

Nate never did show up for church again riding his Harley, but he sure as hell made sure to make a scene riding up and down Main street, using his bike to transport himself to the grocer, the pharmacist and other everyday stores necessary for everyday living. Of course the people of Paxton ignored the obvious and made boastful claims that no one really ever knew what Nate was doing, and that he rode his bike simply to provoke everyone. No one ever assumed he used the bike simply out of necessity, and still, his beat up old Chevy truck still sat locked up in the impound.

One summers day, after months of simply admiring Nate, his bike and the general reputation that came with his name, Dean was fortunate enough to come face to face with the ever so elusive and pernicious Nate Rivers. And as he suspected, he was hardly as immoral as his parents preached.

Sitting on one of the benches in town Square Park, Dean was steadily sketching the town's ladies hat shop which was situated beyond the statue of St. Peter, near the old Scriptures Book store. The end of his pencil lacked an eraser and Dean found himself increasingly frustrated when it came to the perspective of the overhanging canopy, but overall, the drawing was coming out rather nicely. A few times he had been interrupted, once by Marthel White, who had wanted to know why he stopped going to the youth group, and another time by the same old man who had told him he couldn't keep drawing one-dimensional objects all the time. After a short conversation, he soon learned the man (otherwise known as Mr. Fredrick Price) was a retired commercial painter, who in his heyday had painted the grocers store siding red, JoJo's Diners walls' green and worked on innumerous houses within the town, mostly painting them beige, white and shades of mute gray. However, Mr. Price had once attended the infamous Chicago Art School before succumbing to the calls of the First World War in 1917.

"The Chicago Art School was a school full of fresh, young faces," he recalled wistfully, his aged face glancing skywards. "My father paid my tuition fees, hoping to make me into the next Rembrandt or Monet. But then war-time started and my father lost his shipping company after two of his freights were sunk by German U-boats off the Atlantic coast. I think he _wanted_ me to go to war after that. The German's ruined his livelihood and he wanted revenge. So I went to war," he told Dean very nonchalantly. "And I came home a hero; but after that bullet struck my painting hand, I had no hopes of ever becoming a painter again. I moved here to Paxton on whim for some girl and did the only thing I knew how; paint. I painted houses, and fences and park benches; you name it. I never did get the girl in the end, but by then, I had already started up my own business. So here I am today, nearly 60 years later, retired, watching one by one as everything I ever gave color to in this town gives way to time and fades into something ugly. I still remember Chicago though…and I still remember all those classes. Tell me Dean, do you want to be an artist?"

Dean shrugged and glanced up at the older man who had sat down next to him.

"I don't know what I want to be," he answered somewhat mirthlessly. "What can I be here in Paxton?"

Mr. Price gave a hollow, short laugh.

"Son, you can't be anything her in Paxton that the preacher says you can't be."

Dean thought about this and after a moments time, realized he couldn't exactly disagree with the statement because it was really was true.

"My father thinks I should be a plumber," he finally said, an obvious tone of distaste rising in his voice to the occasion.

"A plumber?" the elderly man starkly repeated.

"A plumber."

The old man looked dull and both refused to speak what both were thinking. The owner of Atkinson Plumbing was always looking for young, sure-headed men to take on under apprenticeships. Without a doubt, if Dean followed through with his father's wishes, he would forever be tied to Paxton for the rest of his life and somehow, they both knew that that wasn't what Dean wanted. Still, old Mr. Price shrugged his shoulders and offered a few words of characteristically feeble unconvincing advice:

"A plumber isn't a horrible thing to be son…people will always need their pipes fixed as long as we all keep on living."

"I know," Dean admitted solemnly. "But I don't _really_ think I want to be a plumber."

The older man eyed him perpetually and decided to probe.

"Then what do you want to do?"

For a moment, Dean toyed with the idea of telling old Mr. Price he wanted to leave Paxton and head to New York City, and see all the sights and sounds he had imagined from his magazine. But he caught his precocious fourteen year old adolescent tongue and settled with an understated:

"I'm not sure."

It was a very typical youth-like thing to say and Dean hoped Mr. Price saw that.

Silence passed between them and across the park, a family had begun a picnic on the grass. Both watched the family quietly, and Dean could hear the wheezy breathing of Mr. Price faintly struggling with each intake of air. His own fingers idly played with the chewed up pencil in his fingers tips, tapping ever so absentmindedly against the nearly finished sketch of the hat shop. The story that Mr. Price had told still lingered on his mind, and he wondered if he too would end up doing something understated to his true calling life; not out of choice, but because of forced circumstance.

"Well son, you sure do got a fine hand on you," Mr. Price finally informed him, smiling warmly while eying the open pad of sketch paper. "I'm sure you'll figure things out eventually." The wrinkles in his cheeks reminded Dean of his grandfather, the one he hadn't seen since he was little and in response Dean gave a rare smile in return. "Just don't be running off to war like I did now," the man added humorously. The Depression was long and gone, but their country was at war, and no one was rather sure when it would all come to an end. The newspaper always said they were winning, but Dean had learned not to believe everything the newspaper said. A lot, as he suspected, was lies. Mr. Price then proceed to lift up his gnarled right hand, the one that he had been cradling close to his chest and showed Dean his battle scars from the previous war nearly twenty-five years ago. For the first time, Dean noted how oddly angled his fingers were splayed and realized he probably couldn't even hold a pencil properly. Arthritis, and general wear, coupled with the injury had left it surprisingly ugly in old age. Still, he kept smiling and the two exchanged their silent goodbyes, an unofficial end to an official conversation and old Mr. Price lifted himself off the well-worn park bench that he himself had probably painted on town commission sometime in his lifetime and wandered off in the direction of Main Street.

The rest of the afternoon passed by in quiet reverie, and Dean thought little of the curt unthinking response he had gave Marthel White, but much about old Mr. Price and how he had lost his dreams to the war because of his father. He himself was too young to participate in the current conflict, and Dean was unsure if he really ever wanted to. He was a fledgling pacifist; he opposed all forms of violence and at school somehow always managed to avoid fights. Some kids called him a coward when he walked away from a particularly nasty situation, but Dean just shrugged them off. Fighting was pointless. It accomplished nothing, just bigotry. As for his own parents, they had never exactly opposed his decisions, but he hadn't ever really gone against their will either. It wasn't until he told them he no longer wanted to attend the youth group that they seemed flustered by his open disregard for their authority, and even then they, like everyone else around him, had done nothing.

But Dean certainly felt that he wouldn't do what his father wanted of him, just because of his parental figurehead status. Being a plumber, while admittedly was a fine, high paying occupation, wasn't the occupation that Dean had in mind. To be honest, he wasn't sure where his occupational future lay, but if Paxton had it's way with him, he would continue on his pre-planned route to Atkinson's Plumbing by the time he was eighteen. Still, with his sketch nearly finished, and with nothing but old Mr. Price's story, New York and the usual amount of internal banter between his love of drawing and his parent's dislike of him being late for supper on his mind, he figured it was best that he started the long trek home across town. He certainly didn't want to have his mother argue with him about his tardiness again. The walk was to be a long and arduous one, as Dean preferred not to ride the old bicycle his parents had given him for his 10th birthday. After four years of annual growth spurts, it was far too small for him now, and because of that, made him look silly riding it.

Standing to go, he was nearly shocked into sitting back down when the tall, sharp, overbearing presence of Nate Rivers appeared in front of him, plucking the sketch book right out of his hands, idly flipping through the white, lead traced pages before he grinned and smartly remarked:

"These are some pretty good drawins' you got right here."

From first impressions, Dean noted that Nate spoke just like Reverend Mills did and suddenly wondered what was all the fuss about his supposedly improper accent was.

Still, Dean found himself at a loss and simply nodded his head numbly, not out of recognition of his work, but due mostly to the fact that the older boy had caught him off-guard. After a moments time, he regained his senses and straightened himself up. Nate was at least a head taller than he was, and from the looks of things, stronger then him too. It was sort of imtimidating. Two years of heavy farm choirs had probably made the Southern boy shape up, if he wasn't fit to begin with. He definitely wasn't someone who you would want to take on in a fight.

"Do you mind?" Dean finally questioned. It came out colder and more defensive than he expected it to, but the older boy simply seemed to laugh at his mannerisms.

"_Nah_," he remarked. "I don't mind. Do you?"

Dean didn't have the time to answer the question, as the boy had already begun to talk again.

"I can see this here is a drawing of the old theater," he remarked, his drawl heavy, but understandable. He continued to flip through the book with interest. "And this here," he said, tapping his finger to the page, "Is the butcher's place, right?"

Again, Dean nodded, stone faced.

"Neat," the boy said, handing the sketch book back to him unscathed. Dean was relieved nothing had happened to his drawings, but at the same time seemed to be suffering from mild discomfiture. What was going on here?

"I've been watchin' you come here for days now," Nate went on to explain. "All you do is sit here on this bench and draw. I just wanted to see if ya' was any good."

"There are better," Dean replied stiffly, closing his sketch book. Yes, there were certainly better artists than Dean McCoppin, who in his owns eyes, was simply an amateur. Nate raised an eyebrow and shot the boy a questioning look.

"Oh yeah, where?"

He poised the question as if to challenge him. Dean readily accepted it and shrugged, rhyming off a list of cities where Nate could easily find better artists than himself.

"Denver, Chicago, L.A…New York. You'll find real artists there."

The older boy smirked and crossed his arms.

"So if you moved to one of those big-time cities, would it make ya' an artist?"

Dean didn't really know, but it seemed like a silly statement to make, so he simply shrugged.

"So you like art then?" Nate went on to ask.

"I like drawing things," he corrected him, rebuffing the Rivers boy.

"But that's art, ain't it?"

"I guess," Dean lamented, not ever having given much thought to it before.

"So do ya' got any friends?" Nate fired off. The question again caught Dean a little off-guard, and he found himself with a short, awkward answer.

"No…not really."

"What about all those church goin' folk?" he asked thoughtfully. "Ain't those people your friends?"

Dean found himself growing increasing annoyed with all of Nate's questions. It was like he was being investigated, or even worse, interviewed. To be investigated or interviewed by an adult was perplexingly troublesome for youth, simply because they had no idea what most adults would like to hear…but to be investigated by a fellow teenager was nerve-wracking, especially a teenager like Nate Rivers, simply because everyone was trying their hardest to impress.

"No," Dean steadily replied. "I quit the youth group, but none of them were really my friends to begin with."

"So you just draw all day," Nate stated as a matter-of-fact.

"Yeah." Dean crossed his arms in a confrontational manner and stared directly at Nate, feeling as though the older boy was chastising him—making fun of him, even—and he didn't like the notion of it at all. He glowered at the boy, which unintentionally made the Southern boy's grin widen ever still, displaying a row of nicely set white teeth which made the older boy look rather handsome. But Dean didn't take kindly to his amusement and was about to leave, when Nate suddenly asked:

"Do ya' like music, Dean?"

He seemed to be clamouring for an answer that wouldn't put Dean's defensives up.

"I _guess_," he replied guardedly none the less. He hid the mild surprise that Nate was still even talking to him, let alone the fact that he knew his name. "Everyone likes music. Even my parents like it. I'm sure God likes music too." He still didn't understand what Nate was trying to drive at.

"Have ya' heard of names like Muddy Waters, Jimmy Reed or Floyd Lee?"

Such names to Dean were a mystery and without question, Dean was instantly intrigued.

"No…" he admitted rather warily. "I haven't."

Again, Nate's facial features broke out into a hardy, handsome grin.

"You seem like a smart kid to me, Dean," Nate suddenly replied, clasping his hands together eagerly. "You don't buy everything that that Reverend o' yours says, do ya'?"

Dean, bewildered, shook his head. He stated his opinion with a neutral:

"It all seems to be a little fictitious to me."

If his parents had been around to hear that last little statement, they would have been shouting hearsay. Hopefully Nate wouldn't make a big deal about the statement, and apparently, liked what he had to say, because the older boy was now teaming with pent up energy.

"I wanna' show you something, Dean," Nate announced. The grin on his face was absolutely wicked. "I wanna' introduce you to some friends of mine. I wanna' let you listen to some music I know of. I wanna' show you the not-so white side of Paxton."

Dean could only blink.

The moment the words had left Nate's mouth, Dean was entranced. Instantly, he was compelled to know of this color that Nate promised him. Paxton was a notoriously a white-washed town, and Dean, since he was eleven years old, had been searching for anything that made his existence here mildly more interesting. He was tired of the mellow, insouciant colored social code that bound the citizens to the church, and Nate Rivers, wearing his black shirt with his wild, colorful face was offering him something more. This was an invitation from Nate...Nate Rivers, the boy with a Harley Motorcycle and two younger brothers, a notorious troublemaker who lived on the Farly's farm. What in the world could he ever have to offer him, Dean McCoppin? Why was someone so undeniably _cool _talking to him? Was he finally the answer that he had been searching for in his trendy New York magazines?

But like any fourteen year old boy, Dean downplayed his excitement. The initial wariness of Nate's questioning faded into a myriad of overwhelming nervousness and he began to realize that earlier the older boy had been simply trying to find common grounds onto which to make conversation. He hadn't been making fun of him; just hoping that Dean would be amicable and someone to take a liking to.

Unconsciously, Dean slipped the pencil from his twiddling fingers into his pants pocket and with forced calamity, answered with a low key:

"Okay. Cool."

The word seemed foreign on his tongue, but it slid off easily. He had seen it used numerous times in the "_Down-Beat Yorker_", and from what Dean could fathom, it was a word meant to describe a pleasurable feeling or account. This situation seemed to fit the bill. For the first time in what seemed to be ages, Dean was around someone he could at least stand.

"Are ya' sure you don't have to be anywhere right now?" Nate asked, suddenly seeming nervous and concerned, his eyes glancing over at the already afternoon setting sun. "It might take a while to get to and back from my place."

Instantly, Dean shook his brazen head, his mess of black hair covering his deceitful eyes.

"_No_," he immediately replied. "Well," he offered mildly, moments later, putting on a front. "I have dinner soon…but my parents won't mind. Not really."

Nate smiled again, flinging an arm around Dean's shoulder, the boy dwarfing him by _at least_ a good four or five inches.

"Good," he grinned. "Come on Dean; my Harley's parked just outside of JoJo's Diner. I gotta' pick up some food first though; my brothers will be hungry by the time we get home."

Dean nodded, walking alongside the older boy, trying to stifle the odd feeling of likened danger worming its way up inside of his stomach. He let himself be lead away by the Rivers boy who commanded all of his attention, not a single thought drifting back to his parents, or the once all important supper time which he dare not defy, least Nate Rivers send a glance his way.

It was the beginning of the end of Dean McCoppin's time spent in living in the small time town of Paxton, Massachusetts. But to the overwhelmed fourteen year old, he simply didn't care. This was the start of the color in his life he had been looking for and Dean was glad he had found it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

The abandoned coach house which Nate and his two brothers called home was surprisingly cozy. The inside was refurbished, giving the boys a living space of one main room which had a make shift kitchen, complete with a table, a few mix-matched chairs, a couch, and an old time radio. There was a book shelf, filled with classical literature that had presumably been given to them by the Farling's, and Dean noted amongst the books were many Bibles. The rest of the space was compromised of a small, cramped bathroom erected near the back of housing unit, alongside a bedroom, which had both a bunk bed, meant for the twins, Donnie and Moe, and a single wooden framed mattress which Nate slept upon.

After a twenty minute ride out of town clinging to the backside of Nate's motorbike, Dean found himself suddenly in familiar, easy conversation with Nate, who surprisingly was rather easy to get along with. The two parked the bike in the old barn and made their way behind the farm-house, carrying with them the bag dinner Nate had bought at JoJo's.

The illusion that Nate was an unapproachable sixteen year old soon faded, and for the first time in years, Dean found himself having real conversation with someone that didn't revolve around the church. If anything, he soon realized that Nate was simply a teenager just like himself and this warmed Dean's mannerisms entirely.

Upon entering a shabby looking building, Nate explained the hospitality of the Farling's, who had turned the old coach house into a living space when they use to hire workers to come till fields in the summer on their farm. As it turned out, Nate and his brothers were never intentionally stranded in Paxton. They had come here intentionally.

"Our father told us to head North," he explained as if telling the story was rather difficult for him. "He told us to find a place called Paxton, Massachusetts and stay there until he could meet up with us. After the riots broke out, I swore to God I was about to witness the lynchin' of my own father."

Nate's father had been a preacher in Mississippi, and unannounced to Dean, the South apparently still held much hostility to the black community.

"Our father was tryin' to change that," Nate told him. "He was using God as a tool to help bring equality to all people in Beaumont. But the people of the neighboring town of Fixling didn't damn well like that. Fixling used to have a lot of cotton plantations, you see. Without the blacks to do all their dirty work, they began to loose money. In the middle of the night, a mob of people attacked our home and burned down the church. My father told Donnie, Moe and me to flee in the old truck out back and to find a man called James Sutherland in Paxton. But we never did find James…just a town filled with devote Calvinists and a police officer who took my truck away fer' drivin' underage."

"So the truck you guys were riding in was never really stolen?" Dean asked, finding the rumors to suddenly be nothing but that: rumors.

"Nope," Nate replied humorously, a chuckle following his curt reply. "But that police force of yours didn't seem to damn well care. 'Said to us _'What you boys are drivin' is state property now, and unless you pay the impound fine, it will remain state property._'"

"So who was James Sutherland?" Dean ventured to ask.

"He was the Farling's nephew," Nate answered, busying himself by the radio. Beside it was a milk crate of 33 rpm vinyl records. He searched through crate, willingly continuing on the conversation. "But we found out James had died a year earlier in a hunting accident while in Wisconsin. I'm thinkin' my father didn't know that, otherwise, he wouldn't have sent us so far north."

"So was James your father's friend?"

Nate stood up, carrying with him a handful of records.

"No, I don't reckon so. Just a man he knew through the church from some time back. He said we'd be safe with James. But with James gone, the Farling's took us in instead…now where in the world is Moe and Donnie?"

Unable to answer Nate's rhetorical question, Dean simply shrugged and Nate put down the records on the scratched up kitchen table, taking the food he had picked up from the diner and put it in the fridge to preserve.

"Have you heard from your father yet?"

At this statement, Nate turned, giving Dean a wistful looking smile and shook his head.

"To be honest with ya' Dean, I think my father might have' perished that night in Beaumont. We haven't heard a word, written or spoken otherwise about him since."

The conversation went quiet and Nate back into the bedroom and returned shortly, carrying with him an old portable phonograph.

"The Farling's gave this to us when they realized we had brought some of our records with us from home. We didn't have much; just whatever we managed to grab before our father shooed us out the back way."

Dean was beginning to realize the town's image of the Rivers boys was horribly misconstrued. They were victims in all this, not victimizers who provoked the town's people like the community liked to believe they did. The Farling's were hardly a senile old couple in need of farm hands, but they had taken pity on the boys none the less. The preconceived notion that they were bringing with them bad habits from the South made the community of Paxton just as bad as the people they were condemning. The boys lived here in simplicity, with little possessions, mind whatever the Farling's gave them for their work, and at sixteen, Nate was looking after his eleven year old brothers. It was now no wonder why he had never seen him at school before. Dean felt a pang of pity for Nate, simply because he saw now that while he lived in discontent at home with his parents, at least he had a home and parents, something that Nate and his brothers both lacked.

"Now I said I had some music for ya' to listen to now, didn't I?"

Nate's voice interrupted Dean's internal wanderings and he was pulled back into the conversation by happier looking Nate who had set up the phonograph on the kitchen table with the vinyl disc already to go, his sturdy hands on the hand-turned crank.

"This here is a record of the great Muddy Waters," he informed Dean with a grin. "A black blue's player from Mississippi. I bet you haven't heard anythin' like him around here before, Dean. A damn well bet ya' haven't."

Dean, attuned to the fact that his musical variety was limited to the local radio station, alongside the strictly paced hymns sang in church, said nothing and waited. Nate, outwardly excited and somewhat proud began to crank the phonograph, and after a moments time, a slow, scratchy sounding whine began to emit from the phonographs funnel.

It started off with a twangy pitch of a few guitar strings, plucked at random, slowly paced intervals. It was strange. It was sad. It was nothing like Dean had ever heard before. Nothing about this music seemed uplifting or in beat…but it was, it an odd, heathenistic type way. The pitch of the sound slid up and down, down and up, and the metal of the guitar strings screeched out of the phonograph like the call some foreign, strange beast that Dean had never heard before. Slowly, a bass beat picked up, plucking away, bringing with it a wave of tinkling piano keys that moved faster than anything he had ever heard in church. The mellow paced sounds mixed, brought into an easy paced groove, accented by a sudden baleful moan from a deep, rich sounding voice that brought an easy shudder to Dean's spine. It was simple music, complex in it's arrangement and the lyrics were beautifully composed. But it was oh-so wild to Dean…it was new and exciting and Dean was slowly falling in love with the heavy, uncivilized like beats. They were the exact opposite of the stiff, timely organ hymns that rang through the halls of the church on Sunday, which to Dean always seemed to sound like a war-march rather then a work of greatness meant to exalt God.

The notes of this music flowed like liquid from one strain to the next, seemingly random, but working together in a colloquial form of terse beauty that Dean was slowly beginning to appreciate. The sound of the rough, deep black man's voice faded, but the guitar continued to pluck away, and without notice, the song was over.

Nate, seeing the expression on Dean's muted face, grinned and asked:

"Would ya' like to hear another one?"

Immediately, Dean shook his head in a solid 'yes', and Nate shuffled around, replacing the record with another unknown artist that Dean was sure he would find equally as interesting as the last.

"This here is Franklin Blake," Nate told him. "He's one of my personal favorites…not as well known as Waters, but I'm sure he's gonna' be." After a few cranks, the record began to play and this time, Dean's ears were assaulted with an up-beat soulful tune of a well played cello. The man's voice cut in and the beat of a bass drum began to thump, thump, thump. Soon Dean found himself smiling, just as Nate was and together the two spent the rest of the evening going through Nate's box of vinyl records. Nate quickly gave Dean a brief over-view of each artist and their Southern upbringing.

"…and of course, Marslan here left too, but not before broadcasting his message all across the Delta. Again, though Dean, I reckon that Franklin here's my favorite. We call him Frankie Blake. He's Donnie and Moe's favorite too. He went to Chicago about a year back; the man is a sure-shootin' talent on that cello o' his. I hear now he's into playin' the guitar now too."

Dean nodded handling the record casings with care, looking at each one of them as Nate passed on tiny bits of information that Dean soaked up like a sponge. Everything about this music his parents would hate, and so logically it dictated that Dean would love it. However, with Donnie and Moe still missing, it wasn't long before Nate suggested he drive him back to town in order to seek out his little siblings who were probably still out playing by the school ground. Nate explained they had a habit of not returning home after class, opting to spend their time on the play equipment with the other children. It left him in a trifle fix, because he'd always have to rush them home afterwards and quickly work on their homework with them before shooing them off to bed. Dean, for the first time in hours, glanced at the clock and realized with null horror how truly late it was. It was 6:40, almost 7:00 and he had been gone for four hours. Supper had been had hours ago and his parents were probably in a trifle mess of hysterics. Panicked, but making sure not to show his true feelings to Nate, Dean agreed and the two rode back into town and Dean was left back at JoJo's Diner, as Nate drove off on his noisy bike in the direction of the school yard.

The walk home left Dean with much time to think about the impending reaction of his parents, however he unintentionally found himself thinking about the blue's music instead. Everything described about blue's music in _"The Down-Beat Yorker"_ was true. By the time he reached the white-picket fence of his homestead, Dean had almost near forgotten he had broke curfew, but didn't mind spending the rest of his evening in his room where he sporadically began to sketch a visual representation of the music that he just heard.

The pictures came out surreal and poorly conceived, but Dean truly felt inspired by them.

He felt…alive.

He didn't tell his parents where he was, nor did he tell them about the heavy, rich sounding black music from the South. However, it was a sure thing that from that point on, Dean spent a whole lot less time sketching alone, and a lot more time with Nate and his brothers. When his parents finally did find out where Dean was spending all his time, they were shocked and mortified, but completely helpless to do anything.

At fifteen years of age, Dean was beyond to supinely agreeing to everything his parents set upon him, and they could do little to stop his association with Nate. His mother tried to reason it was a good thing: Dean finally had a real, genuine friend, and during the year he had known Nate, he had finally started to court some of the local girls. But his father was still unwavering with his resolve: Nate was a bad influence.

As Nate had promised Dean, he began to show Dean the colorful underside of Paxton that previously Dean had been oblivious to. There were a few other kids like him; kids that were bored by the white coded social standings of the church and in their own ways, rebelled against the authorities that were their parents, God, or otherwise. They hung out at JoJo's, or at Nate's coach house, or sometimes simply in the park. But they never remained in one place for long. They listened to music that was wild and rowdy and soulful, music that didn't necessarily stick to a strict four four timing regiment and with Nate's help, the boys soon were learning all about the horrible history from the South. Nate eventually found permanent employment at the local butcher's shop after a out of town man bought out the business and was rather impartial to whom he hired as long as they worked well. With a steady income in place, Nate found himself traveling out of town to larger cities, from which he would return with the latest vinyls of his and brother's favorite blue's artists, and always with news on Franklin Blake.

And as always, Dean was drawing everything around him.

Eventually, his parents grew wary of his behavior, and at one point confiscated a record he had brought home and played for them, courtesy of Nate Rivers.

"First the drawings, and now this," his father lamented, thoroughly disgusted. "Did you know Marilyn, that Dean listens to black people's music?" he told his wife distastefully one day.

His wife shook her head and Gerard McCoppin sighed.

"He brought home an awful vinyl given to him by the Rivers boy the other day while you were out at the church social. Horrid stuff. No proper musical application at all. It was disgraceful."

His wife seemed absolutely shocked by this, but said nothing. She puttered around in the kitchen all afternoon, trying to find a plausible excuse in which to defend her son with, but found herself with none. She wanted to find a reason to love her boy, despite his shortcomings, but the church kept preaching the evils of his ways, and so like the good house-wife she was, was forced to resign her position and agreed with her husband.

Progressively, the family watched as Dean took a perceived turn for the worst. He got his own job at the local grocers as a bag-boy, and in turn, began to buy his own clothes.

When he first showed up at home wearing a black sleeved tee-shirt and blue jeans, similar to the ones the Rivers boys wore, his mother had to take seat on the settee in the living room and listened, but didn't actually hear the reasons why the clothing he wore was practical in comparison to the constantly wrinkled trousers, ruffled corduroys and iron pressed shirts from the past.

Still, Dean's school work did not suffer, nor did his attendance in church, so the family remained quiet about their son's new social life and reckless looking appearance. The drawings he kept producing were getting steadily better, and sometimes Mrs. McCoppin actually found herself admiring her sons work. By the time he turned sixteen in 1943, Dean had been associating himself with the Rivers boys for nearly two years and subsequently had become a rather unmentioned faux-pas in town's peoples gossip. It was synonymous amongst everyone that the McCoppin's had let their only son run astray with the muck that was Nate Rivers and his two younger twin brothers, and the family had became rather shame faced in their own respect. Still, Dean remained oblivious to this, faithfully attending every church service in vain, a docile attempt to please his parents lest they leave him and Nate alone, and it went without saying that most every Sunday Dean didn't hear a word that Reverend Mills said.

---

After fostering an easy, convenient relationship that neither boy had went into with much expectations about, Nate and Dean eventually learned the likes and dislikes of each other, down to their very last quirks.

While not overly close, they were the best of friends each other had, and the two kept by each others sides, simply because there was really nobody else around like them.

While Dean knew Nate was notorious for his bad mouth, like Franklin Blake and his leather jacket, Nate was keenly aware of Dean's flourishing artistic abilities, his somewhat pretentious love of the _"Down Beat Yorker"_ magazine and his secret yearning to one day escape to the Big Apple.

Nate sometimes had a had a habit of fostering traits in Dean that he would like to see, simply because of the two year age gap, and as they grew older, each began to mature at a different rate. Still, their friendship remained, and by early spring of 1943, the two had fallen into a routine that was both familiar and within each others comfort zones.

Nate told Dean he would be content living in a town like Paxton, as long as he had his brothers, but didn't understand Dean's need to see New York.

"All big cities are the same," he told Dean. "When we stopped in Memphis on the way up north, it was a non-stop rush; a constant whirl of people, no one ever seeing anyone, just blank faces on the street. And no one cared."

Still, nothing Nate did or said discouraged Dean and the older boy eventually grew to accept that Dean had an innate longing to visit the city he had only read about for the past five years and began suggesting ways to tell his parents about his plan.

But Dean easily shrugged off his friend's suggestions, telling him that his parents probably wouldn't understand anyways.

"They think my drawings are stupid," he told Nate one day, as the two sat on a make shift wooden fence on the property line of the Campbell's farm. "If I told them I wanted to go to New York, they'd probably think I was possessed by the devil."

His grave words made Nate laugh and the older boy lit up a cigarette.

"You could shock them even more by tellin' them you don't believe in that there God of there's," Nate joked. "Then they'd really think you're possessed."

But Dean didn't answer his friend, and there was no humorous reply. The banter stopped dead in its tracks and Nate watched as Dean's face become subtly quiet and his friend turned to look at him.

"You don't believe in their God, do ya' Dean?" he asked the younger boy in all seriousness this time.

Dean's shoulders shifted uncomfortably. He looked terse. His eyes fluttered downwards and he found his gaze to be on the ground.

"I believe in free thinking," he profoundly answered, his voice adamant, but still troubled sounding. "I just...I just don't know Nate. I've be told the same things over and over again my whole life, but none of it makes sense. How do you still believe in Him, Nate? You're the son of a preacher who was killed by a group of religious racists! How does that even make any sense? And yet you're here, living in Paxton, a place I imagine to be just as bad as the South, and you still read your brother's Bible versus every night and you attend church as if none of it matters…I want to believe in God, Nate...but this God my parents preach to me doesn't seem _real_."

Nate thought about what Dean said to him, and wordlessly, exhaled a large puff of smoke. Dean waited on tender-hooks for his friends answer, hoping to find insight.

"Faith is somethin' you find inside of you, Dean," Nate finally answered in solemn tones. "My father might be dead, but that doesn't mean I can't go on without him. You can't believe in something just because people tell you to. You have to choose what you believe in' yourself. You have to choose Dean. Choose. It's all up to you."

The boys went silent, Nate puffing fervently on his cigarette and without a word, the two boys headed back into town.

After that, the boys rarely discussed their own personal religious choices, but in the not-so distant future, Dean decidedly did not wear his Sunday's best to the weekly service.

And once again, the town was indeed scadalized.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **_After much delay, the next chapter is finally up. I have a new Beta; **evangelinefyre, **so hopefully my grammatical errors are a thing of the past. Hopefully. Enjoy!_

_---_

**Chapter 4**

Summer was quickly approaching and with the school year rapidly drawing to an end for Dean, he found himself spending a lot more time drawing in class than he was learning. Don't get Dean wrong; he was a studious boy who believed in the virtues of education, but lately his mind had been wholly distracted.

His teachers reprimanded him for it wholesomely, but at the same time, they couldn't help but feel a little bit of awe-inspiration, for his work truly was superb. And while Dean's class schedule dictated that he focus himself more upon the trades and male dominated mechanics courses, his teachers soon found themselves discussing if it would be possible to enroll Dean in one of the school's lesser known art classes, if only for a semester, because such talent was a shameful thing to waste.

In the lieu of the stifling June heat, classes had been released early for the past couple days and rather than head home like most students did, cheering at their good fortune, Dean found himself in the company of Nate. He was waiting around in the town Square Park, content on laying in the shade of a large oak tree while waiting for his brothers to finish their fun on the play equipment.

Inviting himself to sit down, Dean too relished the lofty shadows of the tall oak tree, feeling slightly sticky, due mostly to the fact that his black shirt attracted far too much sun, as did his hair, and for once, felt himself become flush in the face.

"Have a nice day at school?" Nate asked, not bothering to open his lidded eyes. His accent had softened considerably over the past two years in Paxton, but he was not without his Southern twang, something that still classified him viably as an outsider.

"We took apart a motorcycle engine in shop class today," Dean told his friend, wiping his brow. "Or at least we tried too. At lot of us weren't paying attention because the garage was like a baking oven."

Nate snorted at this, the imagery of Dean wasting away in the hot, tin-roofed classroom causing him much humor and he rolled over, positioning the upper half of his torso against the trunk of the thick oak tree. An almost finished cigarette hung lazily from the lank eighteen-year-old's mouth and he extinguished the butt into the grass.

"Well," he informed Dean at leisure with a grin. "As for me, the butcher's freezer broke sometime in the night. All the meat spoiled and shop smells deader than a carcass found on the side of the roadway. 'Reckons he lost about a thousand dollars in produce."

Dean smirked, but not out of the butcher's misfortune. With a shop that smelt of rot, it meant Nate was free to do as he pleased until the store was cleaned up.

"Anyways," Nate said, continuing on. "Mr. Greer gave me the afternoon off so he and his wife can flush out the store front. Ya' know, wash it down a bit...air it out."

"Better Mr. Greer than you."

Mr. Greer, the man who had bought out the town's one and only butcher shop, was sloppy, fat man with a horrible odor to his breath. Nate said it came from eating too much red meat. Still, with no other butcher in town, the town's people were forced to shop at Greer's due to circumstance, despite the fact that he was heavily disliked and had hired a no-good-nick like Nate.

"Hell yes!" Nate shot off with a toothy grinned. "I don't wanna' be touchin' no rottin' dead animal meat. I ain't paid enough for that shit. Greer hardly pays me at all."

The boys let themselves fall into an amicable silence and per usual, Dean pulled out his sketch pad. He had already drawn every building in town and there wasn't an angle from where he sat in his spot at the park that he hadn't already captured. Still, without meaning to, he felt a desire to sketch something, make that anything, and settled on the image in his mind from what he could remember of the garage from shop class. Nate, who had gone back to his napping, rolled over onto his stomach, cradling his head in his folded arms. Dean was unsure of how the boy could be wearing his leather jacket in such heat, but he seemed unaffected by the weather and hadn't even broken a sweat. He boastfully claimed that this heat was nothing compared to the temperatures in the south and seemed to wear his leather jacket with pride.

After a while, Nate, hearing nothing but the scratching of Dean's pencil lifted his head slightly and raised a skeptic brow in Dean's direction.

"You drawin' again, Dean?"

Dean nodded his surly head and Nate sat back up, peering over the younger boy's shoulder.

"What in the world could ya' possibly be drawin' now…you've drawn everything from the grocer's alleyway to the hair on the top of my head. There's ain't nothing in this park that's new…"

Dean shrugged and showed his friend the preliminary sketches of the interior of the high-roofed shop class and the Southern boy let out a soft '_ah_', intent on watching the rest of the sketch take form. For a while, the two boys sat in silence, Dean meticulously focusing on his sketchpad, with a relatively interested Nate peering over his shoulder. Occasionally he would cross his brows, but not before grinning, pleased with his friend's accomplishments.

"Hey Dean?" he asked after a while. His voice rolled off his tongue in a slow, soft manner, almost like molasses. He sounded dog-tired.

"Yeah, Nate?" Dean kept drawing, the soft gray lines of the lead pencil shading in the shadows cast from high place industrial style factory windows.

"You ever think of drawin' people from memory?"

"People?" he echoed lightly. The table full of tools set up against the far wall was slightly out of perspective and Dean began to erase it, furrowing his face in frustration. He hadn't really heard his friend's question and hastily re-traced the lines on the windows again.

"Yeah, people," the boy echoed. His voice had a ponderous quality to it, like he had been thinking about this for a long time. He stretched out his arms and let his jaw go slack. "You know, like your Ma or Pa," he said slipping back into his Southern dialect. "Or people you see at school…like this machine shop classroom you got drawin' here. You're drawin' this here from memory. But people are a lot more interestin' than buildings and classrooms, Dean. People change. They're never the same person once…you can always add to them."

The Southern boy quickly tugged at Dean's sketch book, and Dean, who had put down his pencil, finally listening to what Nate had to say, relented his grip. His precious book was stolen away, and with mild curiosity he watched as Nate began to flip through the pages, his face searching each drawing fully before finally settling with on a sketch near the front of the binding. He angled the sketch pad in Dean's direction and showed him the contour drawing of the St. Peter's statue he had done some months ago.

"You see, Dean," he said, poking the picture with a sturdy finger. "You've drawn this here statue about a dozen times. And every time it comes out damn near perfect. It never looks any different. You've drawn it over and over again, and every time it's the same."

Dean shrugged and snatched the book back from his friend, flipping back to his current sketch.

"So?"

He picked up his pencil again and continued his drawing.

"With people, you never know what you're gonna get!" Nate told him, his voice cooing with an edge of excitement. "It would be a challenge to ya Dean. You're too good to be drawin' old borin' buildings all the time. Why not focus on something that moves?"

Dean, once again, stopped his drawing and thought about this for a moment. He frowned. Nate had a particularly annoying habit of being right, and once again, he realized what Nate was saying made sense. For the past two years, nothing about his drawings was difficult. From a technical stand-point all of them were immaculately done, but that was simply because he had the time to sit and stare at the ever-unmoving buildings and baseball bats that littered his sketch pads. Nate was right. Nothing about them ever changed.

"But who would you suggest I draw?" Dean finally asked, a waning tone of curiosity lacing his question.

"I dunno'," Nate mused. "Your Ma, your Pa…that girl Cindy you like from your math class."

Dean shook his head. None of them were horrible ideas, but drawing his parents seemed weird, as did sketching a picture of Cindy Lanthier. He liked her, but not_ that_ much.

"Well," Nate suggested. "What about someone you miss? Who's someone you haven't seen in while? You could draw them from memory," Nate toyed. "Then the next time you see 'em, you can see if your memory served you right. Now that right there be a _real_ challenge."

Dean took this into consideration and wracked his brain. There was no one he missed in particular, no one except his grandfather…but Dean wasn't even sure if he had ever liked the man to begin with. All the memories he had of him were fading and the longer he went without seeing him, the harder it became for him to image what their relationship had been like. It was shame really, what had happened between them, but Dean figured none of it could be helped.

"The only person I haven't really seen in a while is my grandfather," he finally offered Nate.

"Well, than draw your grandfather," the older boy instructed.

"I don't really remember him," Dean told his friend with a guilty shrug. "I think he looked like my father, but with a lot more wrinkles…" He stared off across the park and frowned. "Maybe he _didn't_ look like my father," he added as an after thought. "I think all I remember is the wrinkles…and his gray hair. He owns a scrap-yard in Maine."

Nate looked unimpressed.

"And why not?" he curtly asked the black haired boy. "Why don't ya remember your grandpa?"

"My family just doesn't talk to him," Dean shrugged. "I think I liked him, but I can't really remember..."

"And why in the world wouldn't you talk to your grandpa?" Nate pried. The tone in his voice indicated that Nate thought what Dean had just told him was the most ridiculous thing in the world. "Grandpas are great, Dean. They're warm and lenient and always damn well happy to see ya. If my Grandpoppi was still alive, you damn well bet I'd have gone to visit him by now."

"My father and him just don't get along."

Nate looked unconvinced and shrugged his lofty shoulders.

"_So_?"

"So we just don't talk to him."

At this, Nate sat himself up, huffing out his chest and eyed Dean like he had just said something incredibly offensive.

"_Dean Gerard McCoppin_!" he preached. "That is the _stupidest _reason in the all the world to not be talkin' to your Grandpoppi!"

Dean smiled briefly, but the sentiment rang false and he said nothing. He turned away and stared listlessly out across the park, trying to remember his last visit to Rockwell. He wasn't shocked when he realized he really couldn't remember, but surprisingly, was able to pinpoint the last time he talked to him. If he remembered correctly, the last time he had talked to the elderly man would have been three years ago over the phone at Christmas. It was a slightly depressing thought, and admittedly, Dean felt a little guilty. But it wasn't as though his parents encouraged any forms of communication with the man. In fact, they condemned it. The last time his father had ever even gone to see the older man was when Dean was 10 years old, and it had been for the funeral of his grandmother. Still, he was at a loss as to why his parents didn't get along with his grandfather, but suspected it mostly had to do with his father.

Nate, sensing he might have overdone things, lowered his high-held shoulders and lent Dean a sympathetic smile.

"Well, where does he live?" he asked, trying to coax an answer out of his friend.

"Rockwell, Maine."

"_Rockwell_?" Nate echoed in disbelief. "Where in the dickins is that?"

Dean let out a low-key chuckle and shot Nate a small smile.

"Up the coast," he informed Nate, as he tried to remember himself. "It's a small fishing town near the Canadian border."

"And when was the last time you visited this Grandpa o' yours?"

"When I was about eight or nine, I think…" Dean reminisced. "Otherwise known as a very long time ago…"

Both friends laughed, and Nate found himself smiling sadly for his friend. However, he instantly perked up, always the optimist.

"Come on, Dean. Buck up. Who cares what your father thinks! Your grandfather is your grandfather and pretendin' that he doesn't exist doesn't make it so. You should call him, Dean. I'm sure he misses you."

Dean, lenient in his resolve offered a jaded: "Maybe…"

"Maybe? There is no maybe, Dean. I'm sure he misses you; more than you miss him."

Still, Dean shrugged. He wasn't so convinced.

"_Dean_," Nate sighed in agitation. "Sometimes I swear you can be the most irritating person in this whole goddamn little town. And trust me; this town is _full_ of irritating people." His friend's rant was cut short when Dean offered him another bit of information.

"Oh, and also, Reverend Mills told my family that having an atheist in the family was a sin."

The stark and somewhat out of place statement made Nate smirk, his teeth trying their hardest to hold his lips together, lest they let out a laugh.

Dean pursed his lips and shot his friend a comically skeptical look as if challenging him on what was so funny, and Nate, unable to keep it in any longer, let out a guffaw. Both boys knew what Dean had just said was incredibly silly, not to mention unjust. Nowhere in the Bible did the Lord condemn atheism; it simply prescribed a cure to those who chose not to believe, that being Hell.

"That Reverend Mills…" Nate laughed, shaking his head heavily. He brought his hand to his brow and sighed. "He wouldn't know a sin if it came right up and smacked his fat face stupid."

At this, Dean reluctantly smiled and wistfully looked down at the blank paper in his lap.

Decidedly, Nate's warm words of comfort had worked and Dean put pencil to paper in an attempt to sketch whatever memory he had left of his grandfather. Perhaps Nate was right. Despite his somewhat unorthodox behavior, he often seemed to be… Dean wasn't sure about the phoning part yet, because if either of his parents found out, he might as well be grounded until he was twenty-one. Still, risking the wrath of his father was well worth his drawing, because if anyone ever asked, he could simply say it was for the sake of his art.

---

In the lieu of Nate's constant prodding, Dean eventually finished the drawing of his grandfather with unsatisfactory results. In all honesty, he wasn't sure if it was at all accurate, but Nate seemed to think it was pretty good and took the picture and pinned it on the wall of his coach house.

"There," he said sticking a tack through the thin sheet of paper and pushing it into the wall. "This will be a reminder to ya to give that Grandpoppi o' yours a call."

While agitating to look at, simply because of its aesthetic qualities, the guilt was slowly and surely beginning to eat away at Dean. He was beginning to realize his father was wrong in barring all forms of communication, because all it did was foster an ever-growing desire to go against his word. However, lenience wasn't something his father was well versed in, and Dean was quickly growing sick of his iron-clad form of ruling. But with nothing to exactly complain about, he left his festering rebellion to his bedroom, because, as his mother reminded him, he had a roof over his head and food on the table, which should have been enough to please any child who knew about those less fortunate than themselves. And trust me, Dean _knew _of those less fortunate: his parents made _sure_ to remind him of his middle-class status on a weekly basis, every Sunday at church.

The summer drew on, the heat baking away at the tiny town until one day even Nate had to resign his leather jacket to the coat rack. But with the temperatures rising to an all time high, so did Dean's skepticism. On the cusp of young adulthood, he began to feel strange. With Nate by his side, the boys began to discuss the faults in Reverend Mills and his sermons. Nate, of course, still a firm believer, aided Dean simply out of the desire to help his friend come to peace with the questions that he faced. It seemed strange to Dean that while in no way could Nate ever explain some of the more elaborate miracles mentioned in the Bible, he believed in them none the less. "It doesn't matter to me," he told his wayward friend. "That's why it's called faith, Dean. You have to put yourself into somethin', even if it means that '_something_' don't make much sense." Still, an internal battle within him waged, for while he could appreciate the moral lessons the church of Paxton had to offer, the far-fetched, glorifying stories, he could not. Dean liked sensibility. And he sure as hell didn't like being lied to. And with the age of science practically upon them, the unexplainable was suddenly being explained, leaving no room for fanciful acts of ominous beings. He began to ask questions, much to the disapproval of his family and the whole of the community.

But it wasn't until end of August in 1943 when Dean's perpetual questioning of Reverend Mills' sermons got him into some real trouble. Following a Sunday service, Dean, encouraged by the presence of the by-standing Nate, decided to ask the Reverend one of the most profound and unanswerable questions that had ever plagued him. He hoped the Reverend for once in his life could give him a real, sensible answer that could resolve his crisis in faith. His continual insecurities when it came to his questions of faith had left the poor boy mentally exhausted and no longer knew what to believe. A childhood of constant preaching had left him morally sound, but now, at the tender age of sixteen, his soul cried for something more. What that something was, he wasn't sure.

With the sermon ending, Dean waited casually until the Reverend made his rounds on the congregation.

It was his right as member of the Paxton Community Worship Hall's congregation to comment and critique the sermons and in most cases; the Reverend welcomed the people's questions. However, with Dean's thirst for knowledge growing by the week, and the questions bordering on Biblical borderline hearsay, it was safe to say that Reverend Mills did not enjoy the little "chats" held between himself and Dean these days.

"Reverend Mills?"

The man turned to Dean, wary eyed and looking tired, already knowing what was coming his way: an onslaught of criticism and questions that he wasn't prepared to answer.

"Yes, Dean, son?"

He chin wobbled as he spoke and in the background, Nate was smiling pleasantly.

"Today in your sermon you talked about the undying proof of God's love."

The Reverend smiled kindly.

"I did, Dean. Did ya enjoy it?" His voice came out sickly sweet, a cover-up for his underlying contempt for the McCoppin boy, a troublesome thorn in his side that continually seemed to push its way in deeper.

"Somewhat," Dean answered. He looked rather distracted. His eyes flashed to Nate, then back to the Reverend and he sobered. "But can you tell me something, Reverend, _sir_?"

"I'll try, Dean," he answered tryingly. "But there are so many other people wishing to talk to me—,"

Dean cut him off, unwilling to let the Reverend escape.

"You say that God's love is all around us, and that our existence is proof of His love…but what real proof do you have of God's existence? Love is a intangible, Reverend, but there seems to be no solid _tangible_ evidence of His mighty existence anywhere on this earthly plane."

Dean voice's was perfectly adamant; it was polite and mature, and undeniably false in pretenses. The Reverend could tell Dean didn't want to be polite and mature, but he was using the voice his parents had told him was acceptable to use when talking to one's elders, and therefore was hiding behind it. His innocent, sixteen-year-old face was deceptive. This was a boy with questions; dangerous questions, and the Reverend, in the least, was getting sick of them.

The Reverend, in the background of his line of vision, could see Nate Rivers. The boy had wormed his way into Dean's life some two good years ago, and since them, the anti-social McCoppin boy had gone from drawing humiliating effigies of his elders to outright asking him face to face if God was a justifiable being. The Reverend continued to eye Nate. Although the boy was supposedly a devote Christian himself, he was smirking. After all, it was the Reverend's own guidance that perpetually had pushed Nate and his brothers to the outskirts of town, so without question the boy was probably enjoying this. And even more so, Nate thought it was nice to simply watch Dean push the Reverend's buttons.

The Reverend however, refused to let these ruffians get to him. No doubt, he thought, this had been a planned question. The Southern boy had helped him with this. Oh yes! If the new rumors proved to be true, Nate and his brothers were the sons of a preacher who, without question, knew the Bible off by heart. These boys were well versed in religious lore and criticism. They knew the problems that plagued the church, and at the same time probably knew all the right answers to give. Not for a moment did it ever cross the Reverend's mind that Dean himself had unwittingly thought up this skeptical prose; however it was quite possible he did. Perhaps...just maybe. The Reverend himself saw in Dean his waning lack of faith. But did he blame him? No. This was all the Rivers boy's fault. He frowned, giving away his true feelings, but rectified the situation with a sure-headed smile. He composed himself and gave a hearty chuckle, well aware of the on-looking crowd that had formed around the conversing pair and answered with an affable:

"Why Dean, the proof of God's existences is all around us. It's in the trees, and the birds and the sky above us! God created this all for _you_, Dean. This Earth alone is proof that God exists."

Dean frowned and crossed his arms, looking wholly unconvinced. But he was unwilling to continue this argument; the eyes of his father were boring holes into the back of his head. Feeling as though he had pressed his luck enough for one day, Dean quietly accepted this and nodded his head.

"Thank-you, Reverend. Your insight has been very helpful."

But both knew Dean wasn't buying the Reverend's answer one little bit. Their smiles were deceptive, and both used them to hide their growing irritation. The Reverend turned his attention to the other mongering members of his congregation, while Dean turned away. Everyone else seemed to approve of the Reverends answer, and thus was eying Dean accusingly.

Nothing Dean McCoppin ever had to say these days was right.

With sharp eyes, the Reverend watched as Dean left the church, followed shortly by Nate Rivers, that godforsaken Southern boy and instigator behind all these questions. Those boys were troublemakers. Nate more than Dean, but it was Dean who dared to ask all the questions. Nate seemed like he could care less about the Reverend and his sermons. But if he wasn't careful, one of these days, Dean would outright declare this church to be a house of fraudulence, something that he had undeniably hinted at today in his continual questions.

It was then right there it was decided. He would have to have a talk with Dean's father. This rebellious behavior had gone on long enough. Something simply had to be done. Without parents to influence, there was nothing that could be done about Nate. But Dean he could still save. With Dean, he could remove the boy from the situation, inherently solving the problem.

Dean was only one short slip up away to a vacation in Broalin Hills, and secretly, in sin, the Reverend lusted for this mistake.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:**_ Sorry about the delay in updates; I haven't had internet for the past month. On a side note, my beta-er has disappeared again, so I apologize for any spelling/grammatical mistakes. Anyways, enjoy._

**---**

**Chapter 5  
**

In early September of 1943, the mistake that Reverend Mills lusted for came to pass.

A hazy summer with temperatures rising into the hundreds each day left the town folk feeling agitated and annoyed, for their children had constantly complained throughout the summer holidays of the stifling heat. _The play equipment was too hot to play on_, they whined, _the water in the lake too warm!_ When the school year started, many families were relieved. But an already frustrated Dean, angry with his parents for denying the school boards request to have him take part in an art class for one semester, insisting he continue on with his mandatory English, P.E and shop classes, woke up one Sunday morning and decided whole heartedly that he longer believed in God. A key turned inside his brain and suddenly, everything made sense to him.

It was as simple as that.

The Reverend had failed in what Dean decided he needed as a religious figurehead to turn to for guidance. Week after week, he had sought answers, hoping to absolve his skepticism, and week after week was disappointed with his answers. Nate had lightly suggested that perhaps Calvinism wasn't the right religion for Dean. Dean considered this, but was at a loss when it came to finding something else to put his faith in. He lost hope. And while he could appreciate the moral integrity that religion brought with it ( for it certainly gave people a firm sense of right and wrong), Dean knew that religion wasn't the only thing that could give him answers. Decidedly, it was the hang-ups that came with religion that stopped Dean dead in his tracks. Everything around him seemed so overwhelming, and the power of the church in Paxton far too overbearing. With one word, the church could put a shop out of business. If the Reverend hinted at something scandalous, that members of the congregation would simply stop shopping there. Greer's Butcher's was the exception, simply because they had no other place to go. He wondered absentmindedly if this was a sign of corruption. The Bible preached understanding and forgiveness, but no one in Paxton was willing to look past what the Reverend deemed suitable to understand and those righteous enough to forgive.

Still, he said not a word to his parents, and on the request of his mother, readied himself for church by putting on a pair of dirty blue jeans and a freshly washed black knit cotton t-shirt.

He wasn't exactly sure what the point of him attending these services anymore was, but went anyways in a personal attempt at a last ditch effort to restore his faith. Perhaps he would experience one of these so called "miracles" and finally find God again. But he doubted it.

His parent's eyed him stiffly as he hopped into the back of the family's black Cadillac, both dressed in their finest formal wear, while he, their son was looking like he just crawled out of bed. His hair wasn't even combed.

At church, the service started like it always did with the reciting of the Holy Trinity Union verse, but Dean mumbled the prayer, nearly forgetting half the words before flopping down into his pew while his parents seated themselves gracefully.

Reverend Mills, adorned in his black, crisp robes, welcomed the congregation, and in unison, everyone welcomed the Reverend. A hymn was sung, a passage from the book of Psalms read. Faithful to his younger audience, the Reverend then bestowed upon the children a playful biblical anecdote that they all adored. But Dean, glassy eyed and mute sat in silence, his mind completely elsewhere.

Finally, after a second hymn, the Reverend stood behind his parapet, ready to deliver his main sermon. Beside Dean, his mother bristled, attentively focusing her eyes towards the front of the chapel. His father gave a brief cough and silenced it with the handkerchief in his front lapel pocket. They were both thoroughly enamored.

_"Brothers and sisters, I come today with a message from God taken out of the New Testament…"_

Dean rolled his eyes. Every Sunday it was the same. There was always a message. Always something coming straight from God. Why should this one be any different?

_"The book of John says that God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth…"_

Dean's shoulder's sunk. Just by being here, his mood had worsened. Sitting here right now and listening to this was completely pointless. It offered him no form moral enlightenment for Dean didn't need God to tell him the difference between right and wrong. Without doubt, he now knew the Reverends advice was mostly impractical. And Dean, when it came down to most things, it did not like the impractical when it came to everyday living. His mind drifted. For the past ten years, he had spent 2 hours every week in church. As he roughly did the math on the spot, he figured that was close to a thousand hours. What else could he have been doing with a thousand hours of his life, other than listening to morally corrupting lies? He wasn't exactly sure, but knew that he probably could have been doing something worth while and useful. Hell, with a thousand hours, he could have cured typhoid by now!

_"Without this worship and continual spiritual guidance presence in our lives, we would become truly lost…"_

Lost? Lost where? Lost to free will? Lost to believe in something else that _isn't _contrary to its own teachings? Lost to yourself and without the answers, turning to a figurehead to answer them for you?

Bingo.

Suddenly, Dean found himself smiling. This was it. This the moment he realized the church wasn't so white, and neither was the town of Paxton. Nate had been right. Nate was always right.

The whole town was blinded. The people here were ugly. They were all so afraid of themselves, and each other, that without the church, they wouldn't know what to do with themselves. So they quashed the unknown; they quashed the uncontrollable, the different, the new…the quashed everything in the world that brought around change and question.

Paxton was blacker than the evil hate that people felt for the Negro's that Nate talked about from the South. He secretly wished Nate was here right now...he wanted so badly to tell the older boy of his new found revelation.

But Dean was through being quashed. He wanted his art and he wanted his friendship with Nate and he was tired of everyone whispering.

The Reverend kept preaching and Dean sat up straight.

He realized at that very moment, he no longer cared. Their opinions didn't matter. What only mattered was what he thought of himself. For so long, he had been unsure of everything around him..and his parents had done nothing to support him. They were the one's who were wrong. And he was tired of letting them control him.

Was this the choice Nate had been talking about? To have faith in himself, rather than faith in another?

Looking confident, with face so sure he knew he had never been more right ever been in his entire life, in the middle of Reverend Mills sermon, Dean took a stand. Wordlessly, he slipped out of his pew and walked down the aisle, straight out of the church, still smiling, and suddenly was free of those standing united in God.

People gasped, and the Reverend looked furious. His own parents turned angry and shamefaced to their son, hoping that what he was doing was simply a mistake, that he was just getting some air, but he didn't look back. He didn't come back either.

And still, nobody said a word. The Reverend kept speaking, the people kept whispering and Dean kept walking.

Out in the sunshine in the first week of September, Dean traced the streets of Paxton, slowly making his way back home. His parents would be furious with him, and without a doubt, relentless in their anger. But Dean didn't mind. For first time in a while, he was grinning openly and was without feeling apprehensive about his actions. He had once told Nate he believed in free-thinking. And this, right now, was a free as he was going to get.

It was early September in the white-washed town of Paxton, Massachusetts, at sixteen years of age, Dean McCoppin was figuring out for the first time that the town wasn't so white. A warm wind blew, and temperatures were still on the rise. But by walking out of Reverend Mills sermon on that fine Sunday morning, the town would slowly beginning to close in on him. Dean had sealed his fate. He was about to experience first hand how black and rotten the community of Paxton could really be.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN:** _So I sort of love how everyone is commenting on Dean's…harsh…viewpoints when it comes to the town Paxton and religion. xD But hey, to be young and cynical again, as the old saying goes. Not to spoil the plot or anything, but an older, more mature and wiser Dean is_ probably_ going to look back on his experience in Paxton with regret. At the moment, the only thing he as ever known is Paxton, but as he grows older and experiences more, he'll realize how silly he was being in his youth. Now to shut my mouth and let you read the next chapter..._

_---_

**Chapter 6**

After walking out of Reverend Mills service, Dean found that most of the town had become socially vicious. Everywhere he went he was greeted by the disapproving stares of the congregation, and at a some points, swore that their glares to be even dangerous. Tight-lipped, with their heads held high, most people ignored Dean, brushing him off and treating him with cold, forced civility. Some of the more vocal men had even told Dean that his custom wasn't welcome in their store's anymore, and Dean, off-put by their sudden change in behavior, was beginning to wonder if this was what Nate felt like all the time.

After telling his friend what had happened, Nate had simply smiled and congratulated him, but said nothing more. He was genuinely happy for Dean, and sporadically, Dean shared his first cigarette with the older boy in wayward form of celebration.

But as the two boys traversed the town, it seemed the two of them together was enough for some shop owners to even lock their doors if Dean and Nate were to even dare step on the sidewalk near their storefront. Nate told him not to let their behavior worry him; in time it would pass. He took the Southern boy's advice readily, but by the third day, was decidedly fed up. People he had known his entire life were treating him as though he was a convicted felon, and all because of the actions he had taken against the church. He told himself he didn't care about their opinions, but when their behavior began to affect his everyday life, he grew concerned.

The worst of it came from his parents. Not a single word had they spoken to their son, and every morning, Dean was greeted by his father's disapproving eyes and his mother's seemingly mournful stares. Dean was very tempted right then and there to tell both his parents he was sorry for ever having walked out of the church services, because while anger he had been expecting, stark and all encompassing silence he had not. Still, he remained solid in resolve, and with out question, did not believe in God. He should be sorry for nothing, if only for disappointing his parents. But even than, he felt their disappointment to be unjust, because it was their own faults for trying to hold on to the idea of what he was supposed to become for so long. They should have seen the signs of their son's fall from grace. His ever-changing personality and innate childhood disinterest in the church's teaching was evidence enough. Still, they had clung to their desire to see Dean through to adulthood as a righteous Christian man, who, in their own minds, wanted to be the town's next plumber, forever securing his position in their life.

It was a shame, really, that they hadn't asked Dean if he wanted to be a willing participant in their plans. Perhaps if he had been aware of their dreams, he would have more easily conformed to their agenda.

However, with his parents still unaware of his recent turn of religious preference, and with only their mounting suspicions to go on, tensions in the McCoppin household rose to an all-time high.

By the evening of the fourth day, supper was nothing short of an awkward, uncomfortable affair. The family shared a tense and tight-lipped meal, and Dean, after showing up late again, had only further ensured their on-going silence. The only words spoken were those out of necessity.

Even then, his family seemed content with ignoring him.

"Will _somebody_ please pass the salt?" Dean felt as though he had asked the question a million times. In reality, it had only been twice, but after a good few days of repeating his questions continuously, the laconic lull was getting to him. As usual, his father seemed content on neglecting his request in frosty silence, but his mother, always the one of weak constitution, and with undying love for her baby boy, wordlessly passed him the glass condiment container before quickly reverting her meek gaze back to her meal. If it wasn't for his father's morals, Dean swore the man might have hit her.

"Okay, _okay_!" he sighed in exasperation. He was going to mention the "incident", even if it killed them. Metaphorically, that is. "I wasn't feeling well, okay?" he lied. "I needed some fresh air."

There, was that the answer they wanted to hear?

His father slammed down his fork and his mother inhaled a breath of air rather sharply.

Apparently not.

"_Dean, son_," his father said in a collectively forced calm and reserved tone of voice. "You walked out on a church service."

Dean let out a controlled breath. This was the first time his father had spoken to him since Sunday and he wasn't sure whether to expect hostile anger or truculent disappointment. In any case, he felt the anger would be a welcomed changed to the fragile silence that had settled over the household.

"You had the whole congregation a-twitter," his mother quietly added in.

"_Look_," Dean sighed. This was difficult. What was he supposed to say? Could he really tell them the truth? "I'm sorry," he told them, his attention suddenly drawn to his plate of food, rather then their probing eyes. "Just tell them—,"

"We won't tell them anything," his father interrupted. "You'll tell them."

"Yes," his mother agreed. "You'll tell them that you're sorry and that—,"

"And that _what?_ I _like_ listening to a bunch of fictional stories and fairy tales each week?" Dean muttered under his breath. However, it was apparent he wasn't as quiet as he liked to think he was, for his father's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

"_Dean_!" his mother cried, reprimanding him in a shrill voice. Dean sighed vehemently and shook his head. They just didn't get it. Church didn't matter anymore. None of this mattered! He would tell them. And now seemed like a good time as ever.

"_Mom_," Dean stressed. "It just…all of it seems a little far fetched to me. Parting a sea, Mom? _Walking on water_? And the Reverend is as corrupt as the stories he tells!"

His mother paled at Dean's skepticism and his instantly his father cut in.

"_Dean Gerard Joseph McCoppin_!" his father bellowed. "I will _not_ have you questioning the work of our Lord Jesus in _this_ household!"

Dean flinched and met his father's gaze.

"Dad, I'm not questioning, it's…it's just…"—he tried to think of a subtle way to word things so that it wouldn't endanger his position any more than it already was—"it just doesn't _appeal_ to me," he finally finished. The table went quiet and he smiled as his parents weakly. They both looked as though he had just committed blasphemy.

"_Ap_—_appeal to you_?!" his father stuttered. His mother looked as though she might faint. Dean's weak smile vanished and he quickly pushed his chair back from the table, in fear that he might need to run.

"Now see here!" his father yelled, getting up. The table shook and a few pieces of cutlery clattered off their plates. "No son of my mine will denounce his Christian faith in this household! We are a Christian family held together by good Christian values, and it is by the grace of God that you even exist, mister!"

"_Dad_," Dean tried again. "I like our family." He too stood up to face his father. "I like the way you raised me…it's just…this _God_ thing"—he spoke the word with a look of detest—"Please Dad, try and understand—,"

"—_Understand?_" he shouted. "_UNDERSTAND!? _THERE IS NOTHING _TO_ UNDERSTAND SON. EITHER YOU BELIEVE IN LORD JESUS OR YOU DON'T!"

No one was listening to him. Dean's eyes narrowed to meet his father's gaze and he crossed his arms, turning away in a huff of frustrated immaturity.

"Then I guess I don't," Dean spitefully told his father, shrugging his shoulders. There. It was said. He didn't believe in God.

This however, was obviously not the answer his father was looking for, and he grew even angrier than before.

"THAT'S IT!" his father suddenly shouted. "WE'LL HAVE TO SEND YOU AWAY!"

"_Away_?" his wife immediately echoed. She looked horrified. She dropped her fork and knocked over the pitcher of water with her flailing hands. The idea of sending her darling baby son away was definitely not something she had had in mind.

"_Away_!?" Dean was in equal shocked. He had been expecting blind rage and unquestioned anger…but this? _No_.

"Away!" his father confirmed. "Son, you are obviously having a crisis in faith. I know times are hard, but there is no reason for you to stop believing. Reverend Mills was just telling me earlier this summer at the service that there's this institution in Broalin Hills County for derelicts such as yourself—,"

"_Honey_," Marilyn cut in hushed tones. "Wasn't the Stilles kid sent to that—_place?_ You know…the _homosexual _one?" She said the word as though she had just committed a great sin.

"Yes dear. And he came back just fine."

"Stilles kid? _Homosexual_?" Dean echoed in disbelief. "Mom, Dad, _I'm not gay_!" How could this be happening…sending him away, to some stupid home where he would be fed institutionalized jargon until he was brain-washed just like the rest of this town. He couldn't let this happen. He wasn't like Jeremy Stilles…he wasn't like anyone here. He just didn't see the sense in believing in a man with so many rules! He didn't believe...he believed in himself.

"Of course not, dear!" his mother instantly soothed, taking on a concerned look.

"Son, this is not a question of your sexuality," his father assured him. "We both know you've had plenty of lady friends."

"Plenty!" his mother supplied helpfully.

"But you and these constant questions you keep asking—," His father shook his head and looked to his wife for help.

"The Reverend believes your lack of faith is disturbing sweetie," she told him sweetly. "To question the ways of the Lord is not our place."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. Don't question the way of the Lord? The Reverend telling his parents that he was disturbed for asking so many questions? This was insanity!

"I can't believe you two!" Dean suddenly shouted. "I'm your son, and you're taking parenting advice from a—_from a kook_! This is a man who tells us we can't wear casual dress to church and condemned Mary Charolais from attending services because she had a baby out of wedlock! Where is this all-loving, all-compassionate God you speak of? If _He _is so loving and so caring, then why can't I praise _Him_ wearing what I want and when I want? And what type of God would throw an already troubled woman into the streets and crush any faith she might have left just because she's experienced the miracle of life? It's insanity. I refuse to believe in a God that hypocritically goes against his own teachings and instates a pompous _idiot _like Reverend Henry Mills to teach his word to the sheep in this town. I simply refuse. "

A dull silence encompassed room and moments later his mother let out a myriad of gasps.

"Marilyn," his father quietly told his wife in hushed tones. He was oddly calm. "Call Reverend Mills right away. It's worse than we thought."

While still looking rather horrified, his mother milled from the room and could be heard making an indiscreet phone call from the kitchen.

"So that's it then," Dean accused. "You're sending me away."

"Son," his father reasoned with him. "This is for your own good."

"Is it?" he questioned critically. "Or is it for yours? Having a son that questions everything he tells you sounds awfully inconvenient. I know I wouldn't a want a kid like me."

"Son, it's not like that..."

"I'm not being sent away," he firmly told his father. "I won't go."

"Dean, we're not giving you a choice in the matter. Broalin Hills Christian Center is a fine place. Many lost lambs of the Lord have found their faith there…"

His mother re-entered the room and nervously fiddled with the pockets of her apron.

"I called the Reverend," she informed them. "He said he'll be over in the morning to discuss Dean's visit to the Center. He said it would be wise if Dean began to pack his things."

Dean stared at his parents as if they had both just betrayed him in ways unimaginable. Their ignorance and fear was astounding. But he resolved to escape this. This town was insufferable. In no way possible could he even fathom why Nate would ever dream of staying here. He wouldn't go to Broalin Hills. There was no need for them to send him to place to find his faith when he never had any to begin with.

Without saying a word, he turned from his parents and silently made his way to his bedroom. From the kitchen, he could hear his parents discussing in grave tones his emotional outburst revolving the Reverend and the utter severity of Dean's situation.

From under his bed, he dragged out his suitcase and, piece by piece, began to dismantle his bedroom, carefully tucking away all valuable content into the leather bound bag. Like his parents instructed, he would pack his bag and he would be ready to leave in the morning. But he certainly wasn't leaving with the Reverend to head to Broalin Hills. No. He would call Nate. Nate would know what to do. He would use all his savings and buy a bus ticket out of town…to anywhere but here. New York instantly came to mind, a dream realized, and, dragging out all his time-worn copies of the "_Down-Beat Yorker"_, he flipped through the pages of the flashy, colorful magazine and instantly decided that was where he was heading.

For the rest of the evening, Dean drew fanciful sketches of his bedroom interior, taking in every detail to assure that he never lost the memory of his childhood home, because, to be quite honest, after tomorrow he wasn't sure when the next time he was going to see this place again, let alone ever. If his parents believed in an all-merciful, all-compassionate God, then perhaps they would find it in their hearts to forgive him for what he was about to do. But knowing them, and knowing the Reverend, all hopes were squashed of them ever seeing reason, and by nine o'clock tomorrow morning, he was sure that he would be disowned and officially on his own.

---

The Reverend arrived at the amicable early morning hour of 8 am, driving his fancy black Cadillac, one newer than the McCoppin's, which rolled up the driveway in a purr of exhaust. The elder of the McCoppin family greeted him warmly and invited their beloved clergy-man in with open arms, offering him morning coffee and a graciously prepared breakfast spread fit to feed a king.

Reverend Henry Mills keenly noted that Dean was not part of the morning festivities and when he asked the couple about the whereabouts of their son, Gerard informed the Reverend that their son was refusing to leave his bedroom and they decided it was in his best interests to let him have his own way until it was time to leave for the Center. Nodding, the Reverend agreed with this sentiment and sat down for breakfast.

"We knocked on his door for a good ten minutes," Marilyn dotingly told the Reverend. "But he simply wouldn't answer. The poor child is probably sulking and upset."

"Yes," the Reverend agreed. "However, sixteen is rather old to be sulkin' like a child. The Center will fix all that. Your husband and I have been discussing the place for quite some time."

"_Oh_?"

"Yes dear," Gerard inform his wife while buttering toast. "Ever since that incident with Dean and that despicable Rivers boy questioning all of the Reverend's sermons, the Reverend and I have noted a lack of self-discipline in Dean's personality. He needs structure, Marilyn. It was foolish of us to let him sit in his room all day with those silly drawings."

"But they _really_ were nice pictures," Marilyn offered sympathetically in her son's defense.

"Yes, but look where it got us," Gerard said stiffly. "We have a rebellious, out-of-control boy on our hands who has told us personally he refuses to believe in God!"

The Reverend, who was already on his second helping of sausage, nodded sagely.

"I'm afraid, Mrs. McCoppin, that Dean's soul has been lead astray. He needs guidance from the Lord and his involvement with that 'art' of his is gettin' him no where. Art is the expressive form of creativity, and when not channeled wisely into doing the works of God, can lead to free-spirited individuals who use their energy in ways that lead to destructive personalities. Take those sinful Flappers from the twenties. You remember them, don't ya' Gerard? The newspapers were filled with awful, impure headlines characterizing their derogatory ways. Thankfully, those times have past. We are in greener pastures now, my friends, and sending Dean to Broalin Hills for a short stay will only be fruitful to your futures."

The couple nodded in agreement and the trio began to discuss the arrangements.

"Of course, ya'll understand that Broalin Hills is not a free service," the Reverend told the couple. "While God does work in mysterious ways and tries to help as many as he can, there _is_ a small fee for Dean's admittance to the Center."

"We will pay anything as long as our son regains his faith," Mr. McCoppin assured the Reverend. He took his wife's hand as she too affirmed their desire to fix their child.

"Good," the Reverend said decidedly. "Then it's settled. After breakfast, we shall tell Dean the good news and he shall come with me. I will personally take him to the Center and assure that he settles in nicely."

Enthused, they finished their breakfast with amicable small-talk, and upon the clearing of the dishes, the McCoppins went to fetch their son.

"Dean!" Marilyn called to her son through his door. "Dean, sweetie, Reverend Mills is here to take you to the Center. Won't you come out, dear?"

She received no response and after an indescribable amount of time spent knocking, Dean's father took his post as head of the household.

"Son, I order you this _instant_ to march yourself out of that room and to join us in the den downstairs. Reverend Mills is a very busy man, and to take you personally to Broalin Hills is a great personal favor he is doing us."

"Dean, honey," Marilyn tried again.

After receiving nothing but a stony silence, Mr. McCoppin was reaching his limit.

"That's it!" he nearly shouted. "We gave you a fair warning!"

He rattled the door knob, but found it was locked.

"Dean!" he shouted angrily. "Open up this door _now!_"

In frustration, he banged his fists against the cracked wooden paneling, but there was still no answer.

"Don't worry," Marilyn suddenly assured her husband. "We have a key, remember?" Gerard nodded and Marilyn scuttled off to their bedroom where she emerged moments later with a cast-iron skeleton key that fit virtually all locks in the house. With minimal effort, Gerard slammed the key in the lock and swung open the door. Expecting to find his sulking sixteen year old son sitting on his bed with an unpacked suitcase, he was shocked to find the room empty, mind the torn piece of sketch pad paper that sat on the floor in the middle of the ramshackled room.

He picked up the note and read it once over, then read it again.

"He ran away!" he finally told his wife. "The ungrateful child _ran away_!"

His howls of anger were heard all throughout the house and it was a meek and embarrassed Mrs. McCoppin's duty to inform the Reverend of their son's disappearance.

After a moment's time, the man stroked his chubby chin and sighed. So the troublesome Dean had run away. No doubt he was with that Rivers boy at the moment, but that was no concern of his. It worked out better this way. With Dean gone, things could finally return to normal here in Paxton. Nate wouldn't have his partner in crime, so to speak, and the boys would be forced back onto the Farling's farm.

"It is obvious, Mrs. McCoppin, that Dean truly is a lost cause. There is no hope for him. We were too late in aiding him and now he was truly disgraced you by breaking one of the ten Holy Commandments. He has dishonored both his mother and father, and in doin' so, by word of the church, I would not find sin in you if you found it difficult in your hearts not to forgive him."

"But…_but_ Reverend," Marilyn stuttered. "_He's our son_!"

Gerard, red in the face finally entered the room and silenced his wife in an instant. His pride was battered, as was his authority and rights as a father.

"Reverend Mills is right, Marilyn," he gritted. "Dean has defied us for the last time. His running away from home is a sign from God. He has disgraced us and gone against the will of the Lord. It is out of our hands, Marilyn. What happens to him now is God's doing."

Mrs. McCoppin's motherly instinct dictated she do otherwise, however she allowed her own personal judgment to be ruled by that of her husband and ultimately agreed with the ruling of Reverend Mills and her spouse.

"I suppose," she lamented with sadness,"That this is Dean's own doing…we cannot foster faith in where there is none."

For the first time in years, she sounded pathetically like she was trying to convince herself of what she was saying; her voice cracked and she took a seat on the settee. It did not go unnoticed by the two men in the room.

"_Exactly_," the Reverend said, stern faced and sharp eyed. "Dean's undoing is not your fault," he assured them. "You must be strong, Marilyn. You cannot be blamed for his sins. You have tried everything in your gracious power to save him, but it wasn't God's will for this lamb to be saved. For your own personal strength, I would advise you and ya' husband to reject any future attempts at communication with your son. If Dean truly _does _want to return to Paxton in the future, then he shall have to show the community his humility for years to come. However, Mrs. McCoppin," he said directly to the now tearing housewife. "I fear that humility is something your son lacks. It would best if you simply not think about him. I don't think he's ever coming back."

---


End file.
